Twelfth Knight
by an-earl
Summary: A string of murders have been identified by Saito as the product of Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu. There are two suspects: Himura Kenshin and his master Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth. Unbeknownst to them, a third user of their exalted style has time travelled to the future: Hiko Seijuro the Twelfth. Shenanigans ensue.
1. Chapter 1

This is a time travel fic with inspiration from Shakespeare's Twelfth Night that's all about fun mistaken identity! It's also about the intergenerational trauma of Kenshin's crazy wild sword style, Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu. (I'm sure there are better ways to teach the succession technique. But. Have you seen that red and white cloak? Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu masters are just dramatic.) I need to say up front that this fic is 11 chapters long but unfinished. Please see the notes at the end.

June 2020 Edit: this fic is now ongoing.

* * *

**It is 1848.**

Five years from now, in 1853, everything would change come the foreigners landing their ships on Japanese ports for the first time, frenzying the Tokugawa Shogunate and the old ways which had ruled supreme undisturbed and unchallenged for centuries.

Twenty years from now, in 1868, the throes of war unlike anything which this tiny, agricultural, dynastic country has ever seen will break out, embroiling the land in civil unrest and revolution, blood and fire; which will see its greatest assassin rise and go down in history.

Thirty seven years from now, there will be a fragile, fragile interlude of peace found in 1885.

For now, a woman walked the outskirts of the countryside, kicking up a fine layer of dust. A reminder of the particularly dry season, hard times for farmers and villagers. She lifted her straw hat, blinking away dirt from her eyes. She does not see any of the aforementioned come to pass. She did not live to see the Black Ships arrive, nor the horrors of the Bakumatsu war, because she died within five years of 1848.

Today, under the midday sun, the horizon was a blur of heat and dust. The low hum of singing cicadas reverberated through the air, sounding distant and familiar in a way that was more calming than any footsteps or chitter-chatter could be. She was completely alone on this barren road.

Right before her eyes, the Tokugawa Shogunate was weakening and with this, tensions seemed to be heightening. None of this made a difference to her, except that unsure times called for unsure tensions, which led to confusion, disarray, and advantages taken. It wasn't so long ago that these roads were full of travellers, merchant traders, fisherman with their wooden wagons and piled-on goods, travelling theatre troops with children, or people just going out for a pleasant stroll. But bandits had become more and more common around this area, people becoming more desperate. Highway robbers, child-snatchers. That was what worried her.

All of a sudden, the chirp of the cicadas stopped, one dropping off after the other like candlelights extinguishing. She spun around, cloak whacking through the air, dancing back as she clasped the sheath of her sword with her left hand, the hilt with her right. With sandalled feet parted and shoulders haunched, her brown eyes darted from side to side under the fraying straw weaving of her conical hat.

A moment's silence beat over her body like a wave, the rest of the day bracing with her. One cicada began to chirp again behind her. Then another. And another. Before long, the wind came back and the heat of the noon overcame her. There was no one there. The insects might simply have been affected by the absolutely repelling, guilt-ridden ki flowing off her in droves. She sighed, relaxing, and slid the six inches of sword safely back into the sheath before carrying on.

Not even the insects wanted to be near her. Wonderful.

She was an onna-bugeisha: the last of the vanishing class of women samurai, trained as warriors. No woman would be caught dead in armour and a sword now, but she hid her weapons under a cloak and her face under a hat, and hoped her anonymity would serve her as well as it had in the past. She feared the bandits not for herself, but for the ugly stains she might leave on this wide, quaint road, the head-ache inducing screams she might elicit with her blade.

But above all, she feared the bandits wouldn't hesitate to snatch a child from these dusty paths. Even a child trained in the sword was no match for leeches when tired, hungry, penniless, and on the brink of exhaustion.

She had a runaway child on her hands, and was going to find him and bring him home.

The onna-bugeisha tottered to a stop again. There to her side was the statue of a buddha. Once painted gold, its regal colours had being stripped by the passage of time. The nose was chipped, dry, dead moss was growing in the crevices between the neck and robes, and long grasses ticked its sides, obscuring its body. Staring at the miserable thing, the onna-bugeisha sighed lengthily.

"Everyone's abandoned you too, haven't they?" she muttered sourly. She grinned sarcastically at the statue.

The statue just stared.

Because it was a statue and couldn't speak back if she paid it to.

She felt pathetic.

Bobbing down by the side of the road, end of her sword scraping the ground, the onna-bugeisha bent to pull the weeds from its roots. They upheaved harshly, upturning some soil that dangled from the ends as she tossed them aside. Then, in a careless instance, a blade of grass swiped across her hand, slicing her palm open.

"AH — _ouch!" _She recoiled, reflexively flinching to her sword. She had a good deal of luck she didn't take hold of it and smear her newly furnished hilt with blood. Blood that was hers, anyway. She opened her palm, frowning at the blood beginning to pool and trickle into the dirt. _Plick, plick._ What a formidable enemy. A blade of grass. Bought to her knees before the statue, she was about to draw a blade of tamahagane steel against its offender, the great, honourable blade of grass.

She glowered at the statue. The statue glowered back. "Damned buddha," she said, feeling an irrational amount of anger go into her bloodstream and flow straight to her head. "Is there any _more_ karma for me to go around?" she announced to no one in particular. _"Ow!"_

The onna-bugeisha huffed, tugging out the last bit of weed from the statue's carved, folded feet, and rose. She looked around. The cicadas were still singing. The breeze was still blowing. The earth was still turning. Her kid was still lost. The buddha stared at her as she struggled not to rest her face in her lacerated palm. At least there was no one looking, no one bar her and whichever gods were paying attention.

"Hey," she started, facing the statue again. She put her palms together, suddenly, trying to look presentable to the slab of rock. "Whatever comes to me, comes to me. But…watch over the kid for me." She swallowed, her throat feeling suddenly extremely tight. It became hard to breathe, for a short, strange moment. She pushed her palms together hard until her fingertips went pink. "Please. Keep him safe. He's young, he's stupid. And I'll take whatever you throw at me. I'll do goddamned anything. Just help me find him."

The sounds of the cicadas had stopped again.

"I'm begging you. Help me find him. I…"

Her palms separated as she lost balance. She tensed, throwing her head around in every direction and seeing miles and miles of dirt road and grass pastures. She threw her hands before her face — there was no way she'd lost that much blood to feel as dizzy as she was feeling right now. Her hands were coated in red, the dirt before the statue was dotted like poppies, and she wondered when she had acquired four hands and two swords and twenty-something fingers—

_"What?" _

The onna-bugeisha slammed into the ground, mind reeling from everything, the world growing more and more distant as her breath sped up and her heart beat hammered, eyes of the buddha seemingly blinking open and beckoning her, further and further away from here…

Thirty seven years into the future.

* * *

**1885**

"Kenshin, you dunce, you don't have to stare at your sword when I try to serve you tea! I swear it's not poisoned!" Kaoru chided, splashing tea all over the table as Kenshin startled awake at once, pulling his hands off the surface. The wet mess was not solely the fault of Kaoru, the metal box they were in bumped and coughed like a rattling pot every so often. A technological marvel that was threading them across the country in speeds that had been utterly unheard of a few short years ago. Their bags lightly packed, their friends gathered on short notice, their course had been set for Kyoto for the last twenty hours.

"Why —_ yes_ — Kaoru-dono," Kenshin said, reacting and not listening.

"I don't know about that." Sano picked up his cup, eyeing the steam suspiciously. He wafted it beneath his nose, taking a big, dramatic whiff of it. "Coming from Jo-chan, how do we know it's _not_ poisoned?" He bought the cup to eye level before frowning and then slowly tracing his sight to where Megumi had suddenly gripped his clothes. "What? How did I manage to offend you this time?_ Woah!" _

Sano was viciously tugged to his left, narrowly missing the splash of cold, undrunk tea Kaoru had launched into his general direction.

"You haven't, yet." Megumi stated it as a square fact. She let go of him to daintily to swirl at her own tea.

Sano rubbed at his arm. More for the sake that he ought to rather than for the meagre pain. "I appreciate the sentiment, Megumi, but the hot tea _I_ was holding still spilled all over my leg. Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"Hey, _hey,_" Kenshin started, scratching his head with that sheepish look on his face, "I think Kaoru-dono's cooking is fine. All it needs is a little augmenting for effect. It's quite unique."

A few seconds of silence followed. The steam train rattled beneath their feet, drowning out the little squeaky snores of the child in their compartment, chugging and roaring along the rail with methodical grace. Outside, the green countryside rolled past their window, dots of small people scattered in stretches and stretches of open farmlands rushing by. Some raindrops were dappled on the glass and sill, there had been a sun-shower before, but the weather had been celebrated for its grace in creating generous yields in the past months. It was a peaceful and idyllic day, inside and out. But none of this good cheer and calm peace could put Kenshin's mind to rest.

"Kenshin."

"Yes, Yahiko?"

"We weren't talking about her cooking. We were talking about her tea making skills."

"Tea making skills?" Kenshin went a soft shade of red. "Yes, that's what this lowly one was talking about when he said 'cooking,'" he said quickly. This did not save the situation.

"Well, now that Kenshin's out of his daze, should we go over what exactly our plan was supposed to be?" Sano said in the awkward break.

Kenshin quietened. Then, belatedly, his face scrunched into a frown. The motion pulled his cross-shaped scar a little awry. "This one was not daydreaming. I just…I was thinking about something."

Kaoru tapped his shoulder with something hard, pressing Kenshin's sheathed sakabatō into his hands as he turned to her. He looked at her with some worry. Kaoru shrugged to dispel the tension, sighing languidly as she joined the table again. "I know you can't bear to part with your dear sword so just hug onto it. You don't need to show such courtesy around us anyway."

Kenshin smiled, attaching the sakabatō safely to his obi belt. "Thank you, Kaoru-dono. But this isn't the dojo. I have to make an effort to oblige to courtesy in the Aoiya. I don't want to be rude."

"You've literally been carrying a giant-ass sword everyday for over ten years since the sword ban…Just saying," Sano said. He lifted his tea to sip it, forgetting that it was empty and currently all over his leg.

"Yes. But besides that. This one doesn't wish to be too big a burden. I did not think we'd be back here so soon, that I did not," he mused, soft smile playing on his lips.

The last time they'd come here, they had travelled fractured, each going their own way until they converged in the middle of a plot against the country. The Kyoto Inferno that wasn't. It was there that their friendship and family had strengthened the bonds that would tie them together forever. Now, they were headed to Kyoto again, but this time together.

"What are you so worried about, Ken-san?" Megumi piped up.

"Pardon?"

"You've been out of it for quite a while. Not all of us are half brain-dead," Megumi stated, eyes flitting accusatorially to Sano for a moment, who opened his mouth to protest.

"Oh, it's nothing of concern, forgive me for putting you at unease." Kenshin said it like he'd practiced the line. And Sano closed his mouth, opting to stare at whatever was up with him instead of retorting at Megumi.

"This one was just thinking of his Shishou," Kenshin admitted. All the eyes on him relaxed, though only meagrely.

"Gods," Sano rolled his eyes, "If you were just about to tell us you had thirty days to live, I wouldn't even have damn-well questioned it. What's up with your Shishou now?"

_What do you mean now?_ Kenshin thought, but did not voice. "N-no, Sano." He slumped a little, looking at the edge of his teacup intently. "…My Shishou lives near Kyoto. He must have heard of these allegations. I wonder what he'll think of my return. I wonder what he thinks of me."

Yahiko put his fist down onto the table, jostling all the remaining cups on it, the used dishes. "What do you mean?! You saying that he'll suspect you?"

_"Pipe down Yahiko!"_

_"Kami, Yahiko — I still wanted to eat that—"_

Kenshin swallowed, smiling at them all about to fight over the table over this.

"Kenshin, we're not leaving until we clear your name. So you don't have to do the long face," Yahiko continued. "And if Hiko is too stupid to see that you've come here to help, _not kill people, _then that's his loss. Who needs him!"

Kenshin's eyes widened. Losing Hiko's good grace would probably be the very least of his problems, if he was really convinced of Kenshin's guilt. Privately, Kenshin looked away, feeling that loss deeply even though he wasn't yet sure of its reality.

The Kamiya Dojo had gotten a letter, a week ago. An official letter with a Kyoto police seal on it, stamped with a sun insignia, specifically transferred and delivered by the Tokyo force. But inside was not a neatly printed, government-sanctioned notice. It had been a personal letter, handwritten and short. It had been signed with a cryptic '_one,' _but Kenshin had already guessed who it was just by the blunt frankness of the letter, without hedging words or a line more than required to get the point across. _One._

To the layman, it would have looked like nothing more than a number.

But Kenshin knew that this particular stroke was able to, and should be read, as _Hajime. _

Kaoru walked over to sit next to Kenshin, still deep in thought. "As much as I hate to admit it…Yahiko is right."

"What?" Yahiko said, temporarily stopping his Sano-hair-pulling.

"Oh for the love of Kyoto!" Kaoru said loudly, and Kenshin grinned as he cupped a hand over his ear.

"You said I was_ right_. Say it again! I'm right!"

"No, I only said—"

"Admit it Kaoru, you said I was right!"

"Don't be such an immature—"

"Did you hear that, Kenshin, she said_ I_ was right."

Kenshin backed away to stand as Yahiko forgot his bickering with Sano in favour of his bickering with Kaoru. "I'm fine, everybody," Kenshin finally said, and they all stopped jabbering. "No, I'm more than fine. Thank you all for coming this time to Kyoto. Again. It's a lot to ask and understand that. Thank you. Truly."

"Stop right there, Kenshin," Sano said urgently, throwing up a finger to point at him. "You're not bowing to us. You're not—"

Kenshin dipped his head, short and polite.

_"For god's sake—"_

"Did you really have to say that? We have children here."

"We're doing this for you and we're doing this together, why can't you just accept it without being so nice about it!"

Kenshin just sighed at them.

It had started slowly. Strange murders happening in Kyoto. Of disembodied gang members and criminals being sliced apart. Perhaps a hostile takeover. Perhaps just every day killings. As time went on and more and more bodies piled up, investigations made it clear that this was no gang or clan warfare. All these bodies had been products of targeted attacks. But they had been singular, one body found after the other. The latest one had been found in a batch, and identified for the first time as the fruits of one single person using a swift, deadly style for one to fight many.

"Kenshin," Kaoru piped up. Kenshin smiled brightly at her, brows lifting. But Kaoru frowned, looking serious. "There's no plausible way for these killings to have happened by your hand, anyway. No matter what the Kyoto police say — there's no reason for you to be suspected. Forget us, even Hiko Seijuro would know."

She touched a hand upon his. Kenshin looked down. He didn't know when he'd started a death grip on his sakabatō, but he let go, holding onto Kaoru as she gently pulled him away from it.

"He'll know, don't worry."

Kenshin sighed softly. "I know. I know, Kaoru-dono, there is no way. There's only one thing that is weighing on my mind amidst all of this, and it's something I must consider." Kaoru's hand tightened over his.

"Shut up, Kenshin. Saito could be wrong. _Hell _— he's just plain _wrong. _Why are we listening to the likes of his ass anyway?" Sano got up too, pacing around the room once before leaning against a wall. "There are only two people who know the Hiten Mitsurugi." He wagged a finger around. "And that's you," he popped a second finger up, "and that shishou of yours."

Sano sunk back into his seat, hands leisurely supporting the nape of his neck. "Do the math."

"Yes, Sanosuke," Kenshin agreed. "Our plan," he started, replying to the earlier comment, and Sano turned his head to listen, "Is for me to give myself up to the central police, and see Saito to help us find the culprit. I know Saito Hajime. And Saito Hajime knows me."

He lifted his head, smile on his lips growing fainter and colder. "Saito _knows _death by the Hiten Mitsurugi. And I do not doubt him."

* * *

Clinks sounded every time he stepped a foot in front of the other, of porcelain touching porcelain, but it was not an annoyance as he'd come to associate it with booze. A lot of booze. A hearty, generous amount of booze. Booze that will last him months without having to leave the sanctity of his hut. He'd let vermin get into his storage room and he couldn't trust any of the sake he'd made lest they were dipped in rat's claws. He wouldn't be able to survive making more from scratch and waiting for it to be drinkable. There was simply no time. Hiko Seijuro needed alcohol immediately.

After a couple weeks trip up into Osaka, Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth had come back with jugs of good sake on his hands and more jugs hanging on his belt under his cloak. He sauntered across the dusty road back to Kyoto city, keen to get back to his isolated mountain where he didn't have to interact with any more people than he could stand. He'd walked methodically until he reached the outskirts of town, when he came across a rather weathered and run down buddha statue.

Hiko stopped in his tracks, switched a particularly handsome jug of sake from right hand to left, and tipped his head at the statue. "All I need is an uneventful trip back and a rest in my house," he muttered more to himself than the statue, loosening the lid of his prized jug to take a sip. Cicadas sang around him, long grass swayed easily in the wind.

On cue, what looked like a raggedy piece of newspaper flew through the air and slapped itself loudly over the face of the buddha. Hiko paused his sipping. Shortly, he plugged his jug with the cork. As he did, one of his brows lifted up in contemplation, wondering briefly if he was to allow a buddha to be desecrated by shitty, sensationalist Kyoto news. Hiko had already resumed uncorking the lid again when he sighed dejectedly. _"Haah." _He bobbed down, peeling the paper off the statue and, on a whim, smoothed it out.

**New Victims Named: Hitokiri Battousai confirmed returned to Kyoto. **

_Beyond the Bloodbath — the Bakumatsu's ghost haunts us all. _

_The new victims of the nefarious hitokiri have been confirmed to be Hakota Ya—_

Hiko's angry ki began to vaporise the edges of the paper, searing a hole over Hakota Whoever's name so that he couldn't get through the list and see whether it was anyone important that had fallen prey to the provincial press.

Then the initial rage fell away as he suddenly and rationally thought, _My deshi lives in Tokyo._

Hiko took a breath of air, squinting at the lines again to see who had died this time, lest it was anyone who bought his pottery or sold him candles who fell and he'd have to rethink his current business model. The police loved to tout the success of the permanent sword ban, but what had they really achieved when they let madmen run around stabbing people at random? It seemed this problem had gotten worse since he left on his trip. He folded what was left of the paper and slipped it under his cloak.

"I'll be taking this," Hiko said gruffly to no one in particular — the buddha statue, he supposed.

* * *

**Notes.**

I started writing this fic in 2017. It was slow going, but I'd work on it here and there and I enjoyed writing it :) However, once the news about Watsuki being a straight up pedophile dropped, I lost all motivation to write this. Three of my other fics, "How the war was fought ten years ago," "Careless Men" and "Gentle boys who go to war" were all segments of this fic that I repurposed to post standalone.

But I've read lots of beautiful unfinished fic. I was better for reading it than not seeing it at all. Even though those fics remain unfinished, I'd be so sad if they were never there in the first place. So I decided to post this for anyone who did want to peruse. Even if it's just to archive it here. (I've mostly moved to ao3 under an_earl.)

Also, the time travel in this fic is taken straight from the movie 'A Boy and His Samurai,' ちょんまげぷりん Chonmage Purin/ Chonmage Pudding - a 2010 Japanese time travel comedy. I just needed an excuse for the time travel to happen and this silly movie provided it for me!


	2. Chapter 2

Edit: The rest of the story takes place in 1885, seven years after the start of the main RK series in 1878. Kenshin was 28, after 7 years he's 35. Kaoru is 25. Yahiko is 17. Megumi is 30. Sano is 26. Saito is 41. The time travelling onna-bugeisha from 1848 is 35 (if she'd survived back in her time to present 1885, she'd be 72). Hiko Seijuro XIII is 50. "Before" happens a week or so before the events of the Kenshingumi coming to Kyoto after Saito invited Kenshin to come check out these sick murders y'all.

* * *

**Before**

The air of the place was wrong. It felt strange and hard to breathe all of a sudden, like there was a sudden and unexpected change of pressure, her lungs completely vacating of air and then refusing to refill. She opened her mouth to breathe, found that she couldn't. She squeezed her eyes shut, tried to limit the mounting panic, and tried again. Her mother, when she was still alive, had met her end from lung sickness. As the years went by the onna-bugeisha had fared well until she began to experience the same episodes. She began to convulse, sucking and sucking soundlessly for reprieve, coughing violently to clear her airways. After the initial shortness of breath, she lay there and took large lungfuls of air until she calmed herself.

These episodes had started to come at random, unpredictable intervals. Soon, they would become more and more regular, and to some sense, the onna-bugeisha knew this. Though this did not worry her. By her calculations, she would be long dead before the lung sickness could become truly debilitating. People in her profession, and especially, people in her line simply did not live long lives. At thirty five years, lung sickness was the least of her problems.

The onna-bugeisha just lay there and breathed.

The atmosphere was different, like feeling resistance when moving one's limbs underwater, submerged and adrift. When the adrenaline of her episode had worn off, the onna-bugeisha's senses came speeding back into lurid, crystal clarity, and she was hit almost violently with the cold. There was a certain kind of coldness that hurt, creeping from the fingertips and toes and then sinking into the flesh like a sickness, and it was too hard not to notice the way numbness made her feel like her bones had vanished from her. She pulled her cloak close, shivering a little.

The ground beneath her arms was muddy and rough, not nearly dry and dusty enough for the weeks of sun and drought she'd survived and certainly not the one she had been walking on for days. Her surprise only magnified when rain began to wet her face, then began to thud all around her, on rooftops like a damned ceremonial drumroll — she could have believed she was dead at her own funeral. Only, she knew no one would play drums for her.

Before the onna-bugeisha had even opened her eyes, she knew she wasn't out in the fields in the middle of nowhere anymore.

Lifting herself up and rubbing her neck, she swung into a sitting position, shaking a little to get rid of the dizziness. The back of her head felt ominously heavy, like the end of a particularly bad migraine, or waking up from a long dream. It was a dull sort of throb that beat through from the middle to the ends, more of a phantom pain than anything else, as there was no real pain. As soon as she came to, _really_ came to, she blocked out the sound of the rain. Up ahead, the small village dotted upon the horizon caught her sight. Behind her, there was rain for miles. Beside her, there was nothing much but a series of closed wooden huts and open farmland.

The cut on her hand from the blade of grass was still fresh and raw. Her sword and her pouch and her things and her money were right where she left them. The buddha statue, however, was nowhere to be found.

She had no idea where she was or how she got here. The onna-bugeisha supposed she had just landed from one kind of middle of nowhere to a different kind of middle of nowhere, but the mysticism of how she managed to black out and move herself here or why the rain gods suddenly decided to show mercy didn't really matter. She had more important things to deal with than her irritating lungs or black out session.

The onna-bugeisha was going to walk it off and continue searching for what she was looking for.

"Excuse me — Sir?" came a kindly voice, which caused her to flinch and fly to her feet.

She wanted to blame her slow reaction on the rain. She'd been concentrating too hard on her surroundings that she'd effectively stopped _concentrating_ on her surroundings. The old man yelped like a startled mouse in the night, and she immediately reached for her sword, slashing at the air twice in warning.

_"Wo_—_ah! _Forgive me!," the old man cried, hands raised. "Forgive me, _Madam,"_ he corrected embarrassedly, turning a bright shade of pink. "I swear these eyes get worse each year, Madam, I apologise." His paper umbrella flew to the side, rolling away and rocking to a standstill like a spinning top. The curved centre of it started to collect rainwater. She was certainly not dressed like a madam, and her straw hat had rolled off her head, exposing her scandalously short hair.

The onna-bugeisha frowned inwardly, keeping her face blank. She slapped her wet hat back on. "Simple misunderstanding, I apologise as well." The day she started terrorising old men with her heirloom sword was the day she should end the onna-bugeisha class by retiring. "My condolences," she said, fixing a small smile.

Upon the change, the old man dropped his hands and smiled widely. "I couldn't help but wonder what you were doing in the rain."

She too, was dying to know the answer to that question. But she also knew not to broadcast to strange people she just met her stupid weaknesses and embarrassing shortcomings.

"It's calming. The rain," she blurted instead. "Ambient."

"On the floor?"

"I was tired. Resting."

"Carrying a sword?"

Her smile turned sour as she fought the urge to roll her eyes. "Clearly," she said, "a lone traveller needs the capacity to defend themselves."

The old man blinked once and nodded gravely. "That is wise. Especially considering the state of affairs these days. These are dangerous times, Madam."

The onna-bugeisha agreed privately and said nothing. She stepped aside, letting him take back his umbrella, but to her surprise he held it out for her instead. "You've made it to Kyoto, Madam. Please, allow me to escort you the rest of the way."

That took her aback. She turned to see the village again, grip tightening on her sword. Now the tiny village she'd first hazily glanced seemed more like a great, sprawling city, with long walls and tiled roofs and distant pagodas.

_"That's_ Kyoto city?"

The old man's brows lifted. "Yes."

She'd been on the way to Kyoto city, planning to go there to look for her boy. It was an old, run down city formed from a few conjoined villages back in the day. But now suddenly it had enlarged into metropolis of a place? She hadn't been away that long, had she?

The old man kept staring at her with a chagrined, sympathetic expression.

The onna-bugeisha decided this was not the time to ask questions, lest she wanted to fully convince the man she was concussed. In all honestly, she probably was in some way or another. But that was nothing to fret about now. Her boy was still missing and hell if she was going to leave him to starve in some hole. She'd abandoned her part of the mountain to play search party. There were no other sizeable cities but Kyoto, and following her intuition, her boy should have crossed here.

Now, the onna-bugeisha picked up one corner of her cloak and began wringing the water that had soaked into it from the ends. She took the umbrella from the old man — what with her being about two heads taller than him.

"Thank you, Mister. Please, tell me how this part of Kyoto got reconstructed in such a short time."

* * *

**Now**

"Commissioner Fujita?! Commissioner Fujita!"

This hollering was repeated successively.

The Commissioner didn't look up from his lounging. Paperwork littered across every available surface, samples of evidence layout in the open, and an ever-mounting pile of confiscated swords and pistols tied up with a string sat in one corner of the Commissioner's office. As the hollering got closer, he managed the exhausting work of dipping his chin, awoken from a speed nap, and crossed one boot over the other on his desk. When there was no further yelling, he shut his eyes.

"Get in, Kamoda."

'Fujita Goro,' a man who's existence only went back publicly for three years, had enjoyed a successful and colourful career as an undercover police agent. He had been unceremoniously promoted from 'non-existent government cronie' to 'Commissioner' when no one knew what to do with him after the national list of highly wanted finally dwindled enough to warrant think tanks on how to keep the man busy.

And he had indeed been kept very busy.

Kamoda, a rather young and yet greying officer rattled his door loudly as he came in. As he entered, he froze abruptly, hit suddenly by the haze of smoke in the room, which was enough to form clouds and rain ash from what was quickly becoming a little self-contained ecosystem.

"What are the rules for disturbing me at this hour?" The Commissioner said flatly, in the middle of the day, and the officer looked about ready to sweat. The Commissioner took a long drag on his cigarette. "You can bust down my door at any time I should be talking to suspects, filing out paperwork, talking to the higher-ups, pulling a bullet from between my eyes, laying in my coffin before my funeral — remind me, _what _is the exception?"

"…When you're smoking," Kamoda replied shortly.

"What am I doing?" the Commissioner asked lightly.

"Smoking."

_"Smoking," _he said, blowing out a sheet of white from between his lips, where it wafted up to obscure his face. His brows lifted inquisitorially.

Officer Kamoda's eyes darted to the clutter beneath the Commissioner's boots on the table. He fidgeted, having never caught the strict, tense, downright frightening Commissioner in such a lax position, and feeling like he was seeing something he really shouldn't be allowed to. It was an open secret that Commissioner Fujita had no work-life balance, but to see him actually-kind-of relaxing and enjoying himself was a bit alarming.

No matter what sort of fresh horrors the young police force was met with, Commissioner Fujita was always calm and unimpressed.

"It's urgent, Sir."

The Commissioner blew out a last puff of smoke, savouring it wantonly, eyes going half-lidded. This unknowingly made the officer even more uncomfortable, but he had no impression of this. "Who's dead?"

"No—"

"Who's dying?"

"But—"

"Get out."

"—It's the man you've sent for, Commissioner Fujita!" Kamoda said, taking a brave step forward. "He's arrived in Kyoto early."

At that, the Commissioner leaned back with a frown. Smoke curled between his fingers before he waved his cigarette in a little circle. He stubbed it down on a plate full of a week's worth of cigarette butts, perfecting a completely round boarder with the final one. "Send him in."

The officer swallowed, trying to blink the thick smog out of his eyes, which were actually starting to get teary. "All of them? He's not alone, Sir."

Fujita Goro pulled his boots off the table, leaned forward and shut his eyes hard. When he opened them, Saito Hajime rose from the desk, kicking his chair back, and every horrible investigation he'd slaved over the past week flooded back to him at once. He sighed again, making an effort to open the window. This action seemed to break the fabric of reality in his office, as a whole bonfire's worth of smoke funnelled out like a vacuum.

Officer Kamoda stood in the centre, coughing a little and trying to hide it. Saito crossed the room. Kamoda cowered. Saito went past him.

"Good job, Kamoda."

* * *

"Saito," Himura smiled in greeting. He hesitated for a second, but then held out a hand.

"Battousai."

It was the new acceptable formality, the Western way of greeting. Forced bodily contact transmitted through hand touching. Saito peered down at the outstretched hand, ignored it, looked up again, and scowled. "It seems you've managed to get here with less dithering than I thought possible. Commendable, Himura."

Kenshin withdrew his hand, smile not faltering. "This one came as soon as you contacted me," he said, and added quietly, "It…isn't something you would do lightly."

"By this one did you mean, those ones?" Saito squinted, tilting his head to one side.

"Saito!" Sagara called from the side, like old friends reunited. "See? Told ya' he'd miss me, didn't I?"

This was the longest Saito had went without a headache induced by the rooster head. His record was officially, inevitably, broken. Saito did his best to ignore him.

"Sano…" the Kamiya girl said weakly, holding him back, and he thought the girl must have been some hulk to deal with that rooster abomination all day.

"Whatever," the kid with the attitude said, though that term could be reserved for any one of them. He digressed. "It's Myojin Yahiko — no doubt the Third Unit Shinsengumi leader would remember my greatness—" _yada, yada, yada._

Wait — _since when did that kid learn that information, anyway?_ Kamoda shuddered in the doorframe behind him. Kamoda did not know that information. Kamoda's hand had flown to his mouth, shocked. Saito sighed, touching two fingers to the bridge of his nose. "I don't need this. A parade," Saito said, more than a little stressed. That was taking into account it was the third day he'd had no sleep.

Saito ran a hand through his gelled hair and faced Himura. "Let's walk, Himura."

Himura opened his mouth, closed it, and then looked to his friends.

"Oh," Sagara started, "So I walked all the way here to drop off a wanted man with a policeman? Yeah right," he scoffed. "I came here to catch a murderer! Show me the blood! The bodies!"

"Sano," Himura said reassuringly, "please."

"The blood has already dried up. The bodies are in the midst of decomposing." Saito trotted a few steps in the direction of a busy street. "But the crime scene was kept intact." He looked back to eye Himura. "Are you coming or not?"

Himura nodded, looking back apologetically to his friends. Sagara put his hands up. "Fine. Fine. We'll meet you back here in whenever."

"There's a market up ahead," the doctor, Takani Megumi said, pointing. "We'll use our time there and meet you before sundown. Alright, Ken-san?"

Saito rolled his eyes. Himura waved at them, smiling. "Yes, Megumi-dono! Yahiko, Sano." He walked up to the Kamiya girl, saying something to her that Saito couldn't make out.

"Fine, Kenshin. Just don't be late. And tell us what you learn." Then she stepped away and waved rather tensely.

Himura turned and fell in step with Saito. They walked down the main street without speaking for some distance. Saito ached for another cigarette, but stifled the urge since he'd already had one in the office. Was he stress smoking? Saito huffed and turned his hand out of his pocket, away from caressing the lighter lying there.

"What was that about?" Saito started.

"Oro?" Himura blinked. "What was what?

"Kamiya girl."

Himura's eyes narrowed. "You mean, Kaoru-dono," he corrected.

Saito lifted a brow. "Gods. Kaoru-_dono,_ then," he scoffed again. "If you're dying from some rare disease, now is the time to tell me. Save me some trouble with this case, would you not. Lessen one suspect."

Himura stopped in his track. "This lowly one is a suspect?"

Saito had ambled a couple steps ahead of him before he stopped too. A sea of people flowed between them, people carrying about their daily groceries, their street food and shopping, chattering carelessly as if tragedy hadn't struck these very streets so recently. Himura seemed to be taking these sights and sounds in, the peaceful normalcy of it. He seemed to be weighing his own presence here among them where he was within and without, mundane and extraordinary; his role in shaping these very streets and people was so visceral and so violent they remembered him, they all remembered him, they knew of him and have heard of him, and that was why they had so simply and yet logically brought into the accusations Saito was about to lay bare.

Himura seemed also to be intently aware of the fact that Saito, the man who sent word to him after years of silence, after abandoning the last fight he'd hungered for, did not buy into the accusations.

Himura waited for a group of kimono-wearing women to pass before he blanked his face and caught up to Saito.

"You are," Saito said curtly. "A suspect."

"I see."

They walked a couple of steps again before Saito shut his eyes hard. Almost as if in pain. "That was my doing. I identified the marks at the scene immediately. Naturally, that made you the prime suspect. But of course it didn't make any wretched sense." He smirked darkly, voice low and raggedy. It was as close as an apology as Himura was going to get.

"I was in Tokyo."

"Unless the Hiten Mitsurugi manages to grant you wings when I'm not looking then, yes, you were in Tokyo."

Himura laughed, a surprisingly high pitched, unguarded sound. He shook his head in humoured chagrin at Saito and shrugged. "No matter, Saito. It was good of you to call me — the sooner we disprove these allegations, the better."

He smiled up at him honestly. He'd said the word 'we,' and Saito didn't tell him to take a hike.

It hit Saito, all of a sudden, that this was rather unsightly. The last Wolf of Mibu walking basically hand-in-hand with Hitokiri Battousai down the long, public main street. He frowned, flicking away a non-existent cigarette away as he did, realising a bit too late that he was getting too dependent on those things these days. His habits really did seem to be getting worse. Eiji, the kid he'd taken in and apparently committed to, had problems with it and he'd suggested hiring a secretary for the express purpose of helping Saito quit, but Saito knew he would be putting that secretary's life in danger if he really hired one.

Back to the point. Saito had indeed called Battousai here to clear his name, honest intent and all. He'd never managed to quell that deeply embedded whim to snap his ugly sakabatou and make him fight like he should be fighting — in some obscure alleyway where only one of them would leave with the most of them intact. It was an unpredictable world they lived in. Had this incident blown over a little later, he might have reached out and shaken his hand, just back then…

"And about Kaoru-dono — Kaoru-dono and I are married."

"That's nice."

Saito flinched. "That's…Nice," he said again, processing what Himura had said.

"We invited you to the ceremony," Himura said quietly.

Saito's mouth actually fell open in disbelief. _"—Why?"_

Himura kept walking, and now it was Saito trying to play catch-up. Saito accidentally walked into two men crossing to the next store, and one spat an obscenity at him. He ignored it and rushed to step in line with Himura again.

"No reason," Himura said. "We were compiling lists and wedding invites and thought to send one to you. Though none of us really knew which name to put it under. Fujita Goro or Saito Hajime. Or where you were. Last we heard, you were in Hokkaido."

Saito flitted a hand to his side, stopping the conversation there. Himura walked head-first into him._ "Oro?"_

Saito pointed to a narrow street. "There."

The place was wedged between two rows of houses. Each side was plastered with police tags — Do not enters and Do not passes, some washed away chalk scribbles here and there." 'Place immediately evacuated after this little…debacle. This street is empty. Do as you will."

Himura stepped into the abandoned place.

* * *

**Before**

The skies had quickly darkened, rainfall still pattering over the grounds like a symphony. The onna-bugeisha treaded lightly, trying not to splash too much dirt onto the ends of her cloak.

"So what are you doing in Kyoto at such a time?" the old man said over the rain.

She thought it wasn't suspicious to tell him. "I'm looking for a boy." The statement came out a lot more bitter than she'd imagined, causing her to frown at her own admission. "Kid ran away from me the second I looked away," she admitted. "Little _baka._"

The old man chuckled, still trying to hold onto the umbrella despite the fact that the woman was so much taller than him. "I'm sure he's just lost. These young ones, they're too full of fire and fury. I've had one just like yours back in my day. Filled from head to toe with hot air and something to prove. Still haven't managed to make him stay," he went on.

"O…oh," the onna-bugeisha said, stifling herself. She was not particularly open to conversation. And especially not to a conversation opener that grim. "Well. I hope you have more luck with him."

"Ahhh, doubt it," the old man said, waving a hand, "he's a grown man now and gets into double the trouble he used to stir up. But since he'd turned to meditation, it's calmed him down a bit at least."

She could feel him sigh in exasperation next to her, his own guilt and sadness so similar to her own she felt a sting of kinship with the man. But the old man shook away his own woes and smiled up at her. "Anyhow, good luck with your son, then."

"He's not my son."

_"Oh._ Forgive me."

The onna-bugeisha grimaced. "Hey now — I don't go looking for lost boys for the sake of it. I'm searching for my deshi — my disciple."

There was a sudden and alarming change in the old man. He must have remembered the katana at her side. He, as with most generous people who acted wilfully blind to her oddness, he nodded in simple agreement. _Yes, I know a lordless onna-bugeisha travelling alone is strange, and I am tired of people pointing it out. Yes, I know you are strange, and I am being polite by not pointing that out._

The old man started. "Madam, the rain doesn't look like it's going to let up. Why don't you spend the night at my inn?"

He had an inn? That would have sounded great, if not for…

"No, I don't believe that's a good idea. I best be going my way, Mister. Thank you for the umbrella. And thank you for the conversation." She shifted the umbrella sideways, fully sheltering the old man. When he refused to take back the umbrella, she bent, physically peeled his hands open, and placed the handle back into them.

Then the onna-bugeisha went into the rain, eager to put distance between them.

"Wait!"

She looked back, bewildered. "You should hurry indoors. It's getting dark, Mister."

The old man began to look worried. "Yes. But the weather…it really isn't kind today." His eyes flitted to each side of her, a taut look on his face like he knew something she didn't. Like he didn't know what she already knew.

"I need to get going, Mister," she said reassuringly. The onna-bugeisha bowed her thanks in the rain. "You shouldn't show a stranger back to your inn. These are dangerous times, aren't they?"

With that, the old man blinked, taken aback by her words. "Very well." Repositioning his umbrella, he bowed politely and departed with a few nervous glances behind his back.

The onna-bugeisha went on her path. She didn't get too far before ducking into a alley and leaning her back against a wall under a small bit of shelter. The rain hadn't let up, still pelting the ground and sending a stream of water to run down the alley. The ends of her hakama had collected so much water they couldn't retain the moisture anymore. Under the bit of dry roof, the wet hakama dripped onto her already drenched feet.

"So," she said to the open. "Have we fallen so low that we have to resort to ambushing a frail, old man?"

The sound of water splashing sounded from the corner. A man appeared around the bend, weapon at his side and men at his heel. She glanced down, eyes darting from one barely armoured man to another: some holding machetes, some with nothing, and a few with katanas.

"He was supposed to be an easy target," the lead man huffed. There was a sense of irritation in his voice as he sighed again, shaking his head. "You tipped him off, didn't you? Knew it the moment he scampered."

"Hah, you've got nerve!" one of them whooped from the back. "Got a lot of nerve! You know who we are?"

The onna-bugeisha brightened a bit at that. "Let's hear."

"The_ Yakuza,"_ he enunciated slowly. He leaned back, smug. "And we take orders straight from the _Hitokiri Battousai _himself."

This elicited no reaction from her. The rain pelted down the side of the roofing over her, and she stepped out of the way, repositioning her conical hat and flicking a hand to draw back bangs slicked to her face. She was not impressed by a name that had never crossed her mind.

"Never heard of you."

The leader and the second in command exchanged glances.

"Pppfft!"

"Don't try to play coy, lady," one of the men said, shaking his head seriously.

Another nudged him in the shoulder, bending over overdramtigcally to rest his hands on his knees. "I don't know what's funnier. Acting tough, a girl this sheltered, _or just a dumbass!"_

She frowned, running the name over and over in her head. "Alright. Yakuza," she said, tasting the word. _"Yakuza. _I'll remember it if it's worth remembering."

A few whispers broke out deep in the middle of the small crowd.

"Anyway," the man at the leader's other side unsheathed his katana, bringing it into position. "We're about to fall lower," he lamented, taking no joy in it, "to attack a woman."

"Hn?" She arched an eyebrow, lips drooping in a comical expression. Judging from the way the man had drawn his weapon and the control he had with the grip, these weren't just any old ruffians. She knew the samurai had been at a decline for ages and the Lords were losing the power they once wielded with might. But it wasn't like she was doubling over whining over it like everyone else was. Then again, she lived just around the middle of nowhere, in a hut on a mountain.

"Check her for valuables," the head of the group said as he cocked his head. "Kill her. Leave our calling card. Get home before dinner." One of the men from the back came sauntering forward, slow and much more sure of himself than she thought he really ought to be, but his bad judgement was not her problem.

"I don't have anything valuable on me," she recited, used to being stopped at random in dark places.

The man scoffed, closing in. "That's not for you to decide." He reached out, grasping her cloak.

Then he was on the floor, with seemingly nothing in between to suggest retaliation. The machete clattered loudly on the paved ground, the metal starting to spot with more rain. The leader blinked, mouth twitching as he reacted, putting a hand on his neck and beckoning to his lackeys to move. One moment, one of the machete-holding men was pouncing on his target, and then he was not.

He turned his nose up at the woman, where he had inexplicably fallen to the ground and broken all the bones in his left arm. The man, belatedly, screamed in pain.

"How did she…" someone started at the back. "What…?"

Unshaken and with a trace of smile of her lips, the onna-bugeisha moved, drawing back wet curtains of cloak as she revealed her own katana. "Maybe that's a lie. Forgive me. The most valuable possession I have is right in my hands," she said, cutting the katana through the rain, showing it off by catching the light. "Passed down from many generations. You're welcome to take it, if you can."

All eyes were on her or boring into the back of the machete man in the mud, screaming bloody Mary. Not even the cover of the rain could drown out the ugly screams, and the group seemed to get antsy.

The leader pulled his weapon immediately. There was a particular sound that it made, metal ringing above the crowd as it drew them to a silence. "An onna-bugeisha?" he said, impressed at the novelty. "Didn't think there were any more of things like you in this age."

He lunged. The onna-bugeisha banked, letting the sword slide by her left. With one foot forward, she kicked the wailing downed man into her attacker. Upon seeing the leader fly through the air and the two bodies thud weightily on the floor, the rest charged, much to her disappointment. The first two struck together, one aiming for her centre and the other to her head. The onna-bugeisha charged towards them, unrelenting. She seemed to flash away into nothing, appearing sharply in front of them, and then behind them. The two attackers were shaken to a stop. Then one wobbled to his knees as the other collapsed entirely, neither having the cognitive ability to follow her attack. Now the leader had regained his steadiness and scrambled to get up, katana held at the ready.

The onna-bugeisha sighed as they flocked to block the only way out. "Listen here. I'm cold, I'm wet, I don't know when this godforsaken city became a godforsaken labyrinth, but that old man was going to offer me a place to stay."

One of the least practiced ones, she guessed, lurched out of the crowd, coming right at her with no way to defend himself from an easy, open counterattack, _"Bastard! You don't talk to us like—" _

A blue flash glinted in the low light, blinding them for just a moment. The onna-bugeisha had unsheathed her katana fully, swiped it cleanly forward before flicking it to the side. She sheathed it. The man fell, knees hitting the floor and face hitting the mud and rain hitting his body. Red began to crawl between the ridges of the meticulously paved path, spreading out like the cracks of a puzzle piece.

"I don't get a roof over my head. And now I'm not going to get a hot meal until morning."

She didn't realise that she'd raised her voice when complaining, but some of the men began to back away, turning their machetes from hand to hand. The actually trained samurai from ex-samurai at the front looked to each other, exchanging glances.

Then she tilted her head, quizzical. "Ronin have grown desperate. You really didn't hesitate to try and kill me right then and there, did you, Ronin-san?"

"Tch," he scoffed, hands clenching around his weapon. His men circled him, two more regaining consciousness. "A brute like you — I wouldn't even lay with in a brothel." He broke formation, unsheathing his sword as he ran towards her. The others followed without hesitation this time. They were all going to come at her.

Her lips quirked upwards, and she shrugged a little. "If I were in a brothel I wouldn't lay with a dead corpse like you." The first man skidded to a stop to her side, changing directions at the last moment to catch her off guard. He was too slow, and all it took was an elbow jab in the ribs before she disconnected his right arm from his right shoulder and he fell with a yell that shocked everyone else. Then she did the same thing to his neck.

He was dead instantly.

The next man coordinated with another, machete pointing skyward as he bought it down. She parried once, and then slashed him straight through one stomach into the other, then applied a vertical slash to the second guy's back as he attempted to turn to run.

Someone had happened to get behind her back, and the moment she turned around it was already too late — they were all in range of a simple attack. Three in front and one behind. At her side was a stack of wet wood — probably stored for kindling. Looked like it wasn't going to get much usage. She jerked towards it, disappearing for a moment before using it as a foothold to jump.

"Where is she?!"

"Gone—"

_"Ryusūisen."_

The onna-bugeisha bought her blade square down the middle of the samurai.

_"Zan."_

He jerked once, twice. Then blood poured from his head, spurting from all angles, dousing the others with its warmth. The remaining ragtag group opened their mouths in horror, finally grasping the gravity of the situation. They'd ran head first into a fight they couldn't win, into tiny little alley where no one would find them, in the rain where their screams were muted, and there was only one exit.

All supposedly samurai or ronin, and the effect of witnessing her fighting silenced them. Paralysed, the men were rooted to the spot as the onna-bugeisha spun, pulling one long strike between multiple people, the centrifugal force backing the movement. _Ryūkansen. _She stopped in the middle, sheathing her sword. Blood had begin to run between the bodies, merging where the rain was collecting and then spilling forth from there.

The fight, if it could be called that, was over.

"You were really planning to kill the old man," she repeated, disgusted. She looked up, feeling the rain patter over her skin and stream down her face. She made her way towards the last man still alive. It was the leader, ironically. The onna-bugeisha smirked, flashing a toothy smile. "So don't act so surprised," she said. "Those who are ready to take lives should understand that it is invitation for their lives to be taken in kind."

"Who are you?" he said suddenly, voice reduced to a whisper as he tried to swallow and clear his throat. His fingers were vibrating, hair dripping with water and katana lowered in listless travesty of how he'd so proudly held it before. His breathing was heavy, and despite the fact that he'd only charged and fallen backwards, he was heaving with particular difficulty. He strained between huffs, not moving a muscle. "Who — are you? — there's no one," he heaved, swiping his katana through the air, _"no one _— who can fight like that."

The onna-bugeisha, awkwardly, was also huffing rather breathily, though she had the excuse of being genetically predisposed to lung sickness. She took deep, calm breaths before coming back down to normal. Then she contemplated his words. "Why should I give the name to someone who won't live long enough to remember it?"

The light faded in his eyes, dark, crippling fear overtaking them, and the samurai took a step forward, cornering him. They stared at each other for a short-lived moment. Then the man wrenched back, thrusting his katana at her solar plexus, silent and wild. With a quick jut of the sheathed sword, a lean away from the tip of his blade, she put a powerful jab at the foot of his thumb, breaking the thrust into a weak poke at the air. His katana clattered to the floor, defeated.

"Oh what the hell," she said suddenly, pulling her own sword out from beneath her cloak again, rainfall pattering against the steel.

"It's Seijuro," she said lightly, eyes narrowed into slits. "You have one minute to commit it to memory before you don't need it anymore. Hiko Seijuro."

He seemed to pull back at that. About to die in approximately one minute, and he was worried about the fact she had a man's name.

The Twelfth Hiko Seijuro of the school of Hiten Mitsurugi tucked her sword back behind the folds of her cloak, walked over someone's broken leg, and bent to grab at the leader quivering between her legs. Letting go of his bleeding thumb, he groaned as Seijuro lifted him up by the collar, close enough for her to see the blood vessels erupting in his eyes from the latest head injury.

"Now, you're going to tell me where I can find a missing person in this town, and you're going to use your manners while you're at it."

Hiko Seijuro the Twelfth dropped him limply into the mud, and he yelped as dirt splashed over his wounds.

"Where do missing children end up in this city? Where do slavers like to drop their illegal goods?"

The man wriggled back, his eyes enormous. Hiko Seijuro took out a piece of wet cloth and slowly, as if time were on her side, began wiping down her prized sword, Winter Moon.

"Well?"

* * *

**Notes. **

I promise the next chapters will have a lot more Kenshin and co - I just had to spend time setting up the first murders and Hiko 12 for later. The Hokkaido arc doesn't exist in this fic. 'Fujita Goro' is what historical Saito changed his name to in the Meiji era (this appeared in the manga too).

Also - Hi Rori77 and kokoronagomu! Good to see you again.


	3. Chapter 3

The first half of this chapter is a flashback regarding how Hiko the 12th lost her deshi. There's a bit of weird structure going on...I had to push the Kenshingumi stuff to next chapter - but only cos I added heaps more details in this one!

The 1848 flashback is inspired by **SiriusFan13's In Due Time**, the concepts of which were so amazing I incorporated into this fic with permission. You should totally go read In Due Time, cos it's so great! (And everything else SiriusFan13 wrote, tbh!) It'll probably spoil the 1848 flashback, but it really doesn't matter. I'm about to drop it all in the next chapter anyways.

* * *

**1848**

Lying upon the outskirts of what would later be defined as Kyoto Prefecture, there was a mountain.

Upon the mountain in the midst of a thick wood forrest was a clearing, and in the clearing stood a small hut. It was totally isolated from from the small, scattered villages at the mountain's foot, away from the whims and wars of men. The climate was harsh upon the mountain, with unbearable summer heats and dangerously cold, snowy winters, a hard and generally inhospitable place where rumours of large beasts and bandits kept people at bay. Many had made the trek up the mountain and never returned, causing stories of evil spirits and angered deities to circulate. Because of this, few maps of the mountain were ever drawn up, and for anyone who dared braving its slopes, the danger of getting lost and ending up in a forrest labyrinth was very real.

In other words, the isolated hut upon the mountain was the perfect place for a hunted boy to hide.

In the clearing, a young boy of twelve held up a sword. It was a training sword, many times the weight of a real one in order to install strength into his arms, but still meticulously sharpened to a point. The past week had been one of the worst in his life — that is, other than the one where his parents and elder brother had perished in a fire and he'd come to the mountain for refuge.

Lately, he'd had a fight with his master.

It started with a failed swordsmanship lesson. His Shishou had asked him to perform a battou-jutsu upon her. He'd begrudgingly obliged.

In moments, his Shishou had her sword in motion, ready to test his battou-jutsu. But his battou-jutsu faltered mid-strike — he stabbed his blade into the ground to swing his weight around the hilt to avoid her. He was thrown off any sense of direction, skidding fast for a few seconds before completely losing his footing and fumbling into the ground. At the speed they had been going at, there was no possible way to stop. His Shishou's battou-jutsu had flickered at full force and it took all her self control to divert it elsewhere. She'd jerked to the side, an instant, reactionary flinch that put her off her mark and changed the trajectory of the blow.

Never had she ever had to _stop_ a battou-jutsu in the middle of doing it.

This was not something she was able to get over.

"Miki! Are you ok?" She bolted over to where her deshi lay in a heap.

The second she saw he hadn't any serious injuries, her demeanour changed.

"What the frack was that?!" Shishou had frowned, pulling back slightly so as to keep her cool. "Miki, I've seen you perform a standard battou-jutsu a million times! Why did you throw the match?!"

The boy, Miki, shrugged. His Shishou, Hiko Seijuro the Twelfth, swept her cloak behind her. Going at the Hiten Mitsurugi ryu's full speed to bash one's head into the ground was a spectacular way to narrowly die; both of them were distinctly aware of this.

Hiko Seijuro went up to him, bending to take his pulse and touch his forehead; but Miki would have none of it, batting her hand away. "Stop, Shishou! I'm fine."

"Fine?" she stood up, taken aback. "No. You're not. What kind of baka-deshi slams into the ground via a damned battou-jutsu! Huh? And it wasn't even a good one. Your form makes me want to cry." She crossed her arms, looking down at him with accusatory eyes. "You mastered this technique months ago. Why are you pretending you didn't?"

Miki didn't look up at her. He shrugged.

Hiko inhaled sharply, leaned back, cracked her neck. "Get up, Miki. We're trying again."

But Miki refused to move.

"I said, get up."

Miki shook his head. This time, he let go of his heavy sword, throwing it aside. Out in the real world, in the middle of a real fight, this gesture wouldn't be taken so simply as forfeiting the match. It would be taken as a surrender, a dishonourable, cowardly feat, one that wouldn't even warrant him the honour of a clean beheading. Hiko Seijuro saw this and did not accept it.

"Get up, Miki." Hiko gripped his shoulders and lifted him up. "Again."

All she cared about was the Hiten Mitsurugi ryu. This fact was becoming clear to Miki.

As she dragged him up with one strong arm, all of Miki's complicated, battling thoughts swam in his head. He swiped his black hair out of his eyes to stare up defiantly at her.

"No."

Finally, Hiko Seijuro stopped.

"…No?"

"No!" Miki dodged the hand coming to grasp him, weaved out of her range and openly stood his ground against his master.

When Miki was younger, and his parents and brother had died, she'd taken him up the mountain for the first time. He was so afraid, seeing shapes and shadows of men and enemies in every rock and tree, in the tightly packed forrest, in thin air, and heard sounds of assassins or traitors waiting in ambush, in every rustle of leaf and bush. The night was dark, and for the first time he was aware of how small it made him feel, how powerless, the stories and rumours of beats and angry spirits upon this place buzzing in his already overworked thoughts.

But Hiko Seijuro saw this. Hiko Seijuro sat him down on a log she'd cut down with graceful ease to impress him. He had been running from his family's enemies and had come to the mountain to hide in the darkness it provided him, but she lit a fire. It was a stupid, counterproductive move, a fool's errand to light a beacon to his whereabouts, a smoke signal rising in the sky, but Hiko Seijuro, Twelfth of her name — did not care. She lit the fire because he was frightened, and she could afford to light it because she was strong.

Hilo Seijuro sat him down at the campfire, seeming to say to him it didn't matter who would come looking, because she was here. No one had come looking. But Miki did not have a single doubt that if someone had, she'd have killed them easily — even more easily than she did cutting down a thick tree trunk with a lithe, heirloom sword — she'd have killed them one after the other like a kitchen knife through tofu, like lightning through cloud, a butcher through meat.

He had never been so afraid, but she praised him for his braveness as they sat in the light.

The dark didn't seem so bad then.

Right now Miki stood against her, his eyes set like flint, teeth crunched down so hard his jaw hurt. "I don't want to learn from you anymore."

"You don't want to learn from me anymore?" Hiko repeated, like she had trouble parsing it, and Miki resisted the temptation to stomp his feet like a child in tantrum or scream at her to take him seriously.

Sometimes, she still treated him like that same child sitting close to the campfire, shivering in spite of it. He was not cold, he'd just been plucked from the flames of a raging, voracious, estate-destroying fire, he'd just hiked uphill upon a treacherous, high mountain, sweat sticking his hair to his neck — but his shoulders were shaking, the hems of his charred clothes vibrating, fingers jumping, not a part of him able to keep calm about the fact that he'd just lost everything.

Sometimes, he hated how she treated him like he was still that breakable. That naive.

Finally, Hiko Seijuro's anger dissipated in the present. She seemed to bunch up and let it go. It seemed to all just slide out of her at once, a blanket pulled off her shoulders. Hiko never punished Miki with violence, never hit him like his father did. She sighed down at Miki who was staring daggers at her and just faced him as if she were humouring his little mood swing.

"…I don't understand," Hiko started. "All you ever wanted was this." She lifted an arm, holding up the great cloak, the mantel of the Hiten Mitsurugi ryu.

That night around the fire, Hiko saw Miki's shaking and sat next to him on the log. Then she extended her arm, and to his surprise, draped her great cloak around him.

_"See this?" Hiko said. "This is a great treasure. White leather of the highest quality, making it last forever. Reinforced lining, making it as comfortable to wear as it is. Hidden weights on the shoulder pads, right here," she took his hand and led it to feel the bulk on her shoulders, "it acts as a training device, helping maintain my strength when not fighting, and keeping my true abilities under control when I am."_

_She smoothed it down, boasting. "See the red lapels? The red denotes strength and sacrifice. The weights denote control and duty."_

_In a moment of quiet, Miki let go of convention, forgetting his place, forgetting courtesy, and reached forward to tug on the cloak. He saw in it for the first time what Hiko described with calm, sure dignity. _

_"This cloak is over one hundred years old," Hiko continued. "It was worn by my master, Hiko Seijuro the Eleventh. And it was worn by his master, the Tenth, and his master, and his master, and his master. This cloak is the mantel of my line, the Hiten Mitsurugi ryu, Miki. As the heiress, I wear it with pride."_

_She smiled down at him, patting his arm contentedly. "This and Winter Moon are the only things that will be carried on after I die. I want you to be the one to carry it, Miki." _

All Miki had ever wanted, when he was nine, ten and eleven, was that cloak on his shoulders. Hiko had told him from the start that he'd have to work for it, bleed for it, he'd have to want it more than anything else in the world; and he'd obeyed her, he'd worked himself to the bone for it, he'd trained until he bled and bruised, and he _had_ wanted it; he had wanted it even more than he wanted his father's approval when he was still alive, he had wanted it more than he wanted to restore his own clan, and he had wanted it more than he wanted vengeance for what was done to his family.

And Hiko Seijuro the Twelfth in turn gave him everything: not just her time, her energy and her teachings, but her praise when he performed his first ryūshōsen, her applause when he mastered his first two-step battou-jutsu, she actually gave her disciple love and affection others had only ever withheld from him.

Miki did not just respect his master, Hiko Seijuro the Twelfth, he _worshipped_ her — he wanted to _be_ Hiko Seijuro more than he wanted to carry on his own clan name. He dreamed of being the Thirteenth of her line. He wanted to be exactly the kind of man she could be proud of.

But then his Shishou took him aside while hunting one day and casually let slip the truth.

The truth of mastering their exhaled style's crowning jewel. Their succession technique.

For days, she didn't know she'd made a mistake. Hiko carried on as always, complaining about the smallness of the fish in the stream, of how hard it was to light up wet wood, acting like everything was fine, all the while the sword in Miki's hands became heavier and heavier; and blood on the great, white cloak he'd yearned for — the blood of his master's master, and his master's, and his, and his — made it look heavier and heavier for him to shoulder. Soon after, he could barely eat or drink. Right now, he could barely stand to pick up a sword, or to use his barely trained Hiten Mitsurugi ryu knowing what happens at the end.

So when Hiko Seijuro flared her nose and said flatly, "What the hell is up with you then?" he told her—

"I don't want to carry your mantel." Miki grimaced, fists balling into heated, sweaty fists at his side. "I don't want to carry your sword! And I don't want your name either!"

"You don't mean that!" Hiko spat.

But he did, and Miki could see she Hiko knew it in her eyes, which were going cloudy with sudden, toiling, lightning anger, with just a microcosm of the shadow of shame and regret she'd feel if she knew she really wasted her time all these years.

Wasted her time training a weak-hearted coward like Miki.

"You said I had to want it," Miki said. "…Well, _I don't anymore!"_

"Miki, stop screaming."

"I don't want it! I don't want Hiten Mitsurugi ryu! I don't need it!"

"Miki, shut up."

"I don't—"

In a swift, deft flicker, Hiko appeared behind Miki, grasping his shoulder from behind, wrapping her forearm around his mouth, silencing him immediately. Miki barely had time to flinch. It occurred to him, belatedly, that he had never been outside his master's range at all, she could have crushed and silenced him at any time like this. He was completely powerless against her.

"Shh." Hiko loosened her arms, letting him breathe. "…There's someone here."

Out of the bushes came two lightly armoured samurai and one woman. The men were armed with two swords strapped to their sides while the woman carried a small dagger. Miki saw the insignia of his clan on their clothes and breathed in utter disbelief. His mind went spiralling.

His clan was dead. They burned to the ground. Hiko had told him.

"Who are you?" Hiko's voice easily carried over to the newcomers. "What are you doing here?

The woman, an old attendant of his family's, locked her eyes onto Miki and recognised him instantly.

"Young Master Himura! We've found you!"

* * *

**1885**

A thick, truly repugnant smell, bitter and sour all at once, wafted and filled the room. The decomposition made the air feel uncomfortably humid and rancid even though it had been aired and tended to, with measures to keep insects and vermin at bay. But the second Kenshin stepped foot into the morgue, a small wave of flies rose and resettled anyway. The smell of death quickly sunk into his red gi and up his nose until it was semi-bearable.

Then Saito and Kenshin both did their best to act like this didn't deter them. They stood amiably over the bodies, as if they were old friends perusing market stalls.

After examining all the bodies, Saito wordlessly peeled back the covers on the last one.

Kenshin peered over the wound.

Other than the healed, careless wound caused by wiping blood off the blade on the man's arm, all the other wounds were fresh. One slash in the shoulder. Bruises on the collar bone. One line running down the centre of his head. The man had died instantly. A hard lump had settled in Kenshin's throat, twisting about and making him dry and hoarse and speechless. He gotten used to the smell far too fast for a simple man of small standing and a former wanderer. He was eons too slow to get used it for a soldier from the revolution. Too slow. Kenshin swiped his fingers over the shoulder wound, seeing how deep it was.

He felt nauseous, but no part of him, from his gait to his breathing to his eyes, belied that. Himura Kenshin didn't have a gag reflex. That had died long ago along with his twenty-sixth kill. Kenshin didn't know why he remembered it was the twenty-sixth.

A memory:

_It was broad daylight. Upon the steps of a temple, shaded slightly by the trees. There was a river nearby where he could hear water running. _

_On his very first kill, Kenshin had felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. He sliced the man — his name was Yakone Hamiyo, some mid-level man — and watched him bleed out on the floor, already dead. It was easy. Too easy, almost. After all the years he'd been put to practice and years of thinking he was a swordsmanship dunce — it was completely anticlimactic. _

_"This your first time?" Ishin Shishi agent Izuka had said, jogging up to him with a quick smile in his direction. "Wow. You did good. Hahah, I ask 'cos the first-timers usually throw up, you know."_

_Then, suddenly, and as unexpected as ever, on the twenty-sixth kill Kenshin watched a dead man bleed out again. The twenty-sixth was Rin Kisei. Rin Kisei was a nobody-messenger that had happened across something he ought not have. He died just like Yakone Hamiyo, sword through the head, down the collar, down the chest. But, then, a few minutes after, a half a kilometre or something away from the body, Kenshin had doubled over. His knees had gone weak and hit the floor, his hands had dug into the ground, and his stomach spasmed up-down, up-down._

_He threw up. _

_He'd coughed up the contents of his stomach onto the ground and then gotten up. He immediately dusted himself off. Spat on the floor. And then continued on like nothing had ever happened. 'I didn't know,' he'd answered in his head too late, to the throw-away line Izuka had said to him. Kenshin didn't know why it was on the summer afternoon of his twenty-sixth murder that his gag reflex went into overdrive and his stomach turned against him. But it was then. Then, slowly, he bit the reflex down, began to train himself out of it so that he'd swallow it away and wouldn't have to flinch when he'd take another for dead. He was efficient in that way, in both body and mind. _

_It was a small, in all essentiality, trivial thing that no samurai would talk about. Though he was never a samurai, born to farmers, taught by a ronin. It was a flaw a soldier — no, he was neither a soldier — a useless flaw a hitokiri could not afford to have. _

_Small, sharp, and completely acclimatised; Hiktokiri Battousai had no gag reflex._

Kenshin swallowed, trying to shake away memories that kept flooding back, trying to bring the moisture back into his mouth. Back in the morgue, Saito was still waiting patiently for his analysis.

"This…this is Ryusuisen: Zan."

He traced a finger to the fatality, showing him. "One strike from above to the head. The same move I used to assassinate Shigekura Jubei."

And, perhaps, countless others. By then he'd lost count of how many he'd slaughtered. The official number recorded by the Ishin Shishi only took into account official assignments. The toll was in fact much higher as Battousai had to kill servants, bodyguards, witnesses as well as targets within his line of work. Names and faces loomed from his memories — a little fuzzy now, a little blurred. But they were there, as they'd lain there dormant for many years, never forgotten. Shigekura Jubei: sixty-one, greyed hair, a high ranking bakufu official. Shigekura Jubei was definitely above number eighty four, a number he knew because he'd stopped counting soon after. Kenshin knew why he remembered this one — it was the night he had gained his first scar, and the night he'd met Kiyosato Akira for the first time.

And the last.

"You see why I brought you?" Saito tapped his fingers restlessly on the table. It would have seemed like a nervous habit, if not coming from him. "If I recall correctly, it's a little favourite of yours. Your signature move."

It had been more than a decade since Kenshin had used the effortless power in him, the deft control in his form to make that move a lethal one. He felt his hand curl around the hilt of his sakabato. It was strange, then, had always been strange — that a former assassin would go to his weapon for reassurance. With practiced ease, Kenshin pushed the thought to the back of his mind.

"_Zan._ A term denoting 'immediate death,'" Saito continued, lips quirking up for a second. As if he were remembering a fond memory. He ambled around the last table, stopping and leaning back when he was opposite Kenshin, the two halves of the last body resting between them. "I'm right, aren't I?"

Kenshin finally pulled his eyes away from the butchered pieces of a man to Saito, nodding slowly. "You are right for certain. It _is _the Mitsurugi ryu."

"Your ryu," Saito affirmed.

"My ryu," Kenshin agreed.

"But it wasn't you."

"No, it wasn't me."

"And there are only two practitioners your style."

"…Yes."

Saito leaned back on the wall, folding his arms with a judgemental look. He seemed slightly annoyed that was all Kenshin had to say. In a less than humble tone, he sighed lengthily. "What a conundrum. I wonder who it could be."

Kenshin tried not to breath in too hard. He met Saito's wolfish eyes, dark and lined. "I'll talk to him, find out why he did this."

_"Heh._ 'Why' he did this hardly matters, when 'why' is applied to killing a gaggle of people. We call a murder a homicide now, Himura. Murders over ten, we call those 'serial killings.'" Saito bared his teeth in a way that was distinctly not a smile. "Your delightful master has waltzed through twenty-something."

"I know!" Kenshin bit back.

When he realised his own outburst, he turned away, looking vehemently back at the bodies and seeing nothing. He peered over them with a calm expression. "There must be a reason Hiko Seijuro did this. I may not like it, and it may not satisfy you — but I will find it, Saito."

He took a step back, lingered a moment, and then bowed stiffly. Short and efficient. But it seemed to give the opposite effect of a show of goodwill, as Saito's nose flared, and his ears went red, infuriated. He scrunched his nose and grimaced. "I don't want whatever pathetic gesture you're trying to convey, Himura. It's disgusting. I'm here to do my job and if that means we're on opposing sides again…" A smile crept across his lips. "Well, I suppose I should _welcome_ that."

Himura managed a casual huff. "It was in lieu of Shishou. No matter why he did this, if the police want penance, then I will suffice."

Saito blinked. Visibly, he was put off by that remark. Like he forgot people did things for other people sometimes. Like he forgot people cared about other people sometimes. Like he thought Kenshin was more objective, more realistic than other people, normal people — he had thought he was better than this. Kenshin looked away, knowing he had disappointed Saito again.

Saito frowned. "Keep your idiotic notions to yourself. This is already enough paperwork for me to drown in. Don't complicate things. Give me an absolute."

"An absolute?"

Saito darkened. "Will Hiko Seijuro come quietly, or will he not."

"Saito," Kenshin stressed—

"Quietly."

"There has to be—"

"Or _not."_

Kenshin withdrew, his eyes downcast. "…I see…I understand. Alright."

Kenshin, all at once, remembered their differences and stopped his one-sided, bizarre feelings of camaraderie from clouding his judgement. It did not feel good, knowing distinctly that Saito _was_ right, that Saito was the one being reasonable and rational right now, and Kenshin was only letting years of being fed, watered and clothed by said killer taint his point of view. If his master had truly turned and started killing left and right, this could be the greatest disaster to this city since the war itself. No one could stop him.

But Kenshin had to try.

Kenshin began heading briskly towards the door, keen to get away from Saito and his objective, uncompromising, downright accusing demeanour. "You can lay the bodies to rest now. Thank the coroner for me. Please give them a good burial."

"Himura," Saito said, rolling his head to the side. "Nearly all the ones your master has killed were linked to the Yakuza in one way or another."

Kenshin's eyes widened a fraction before settling. It was a subtle change that Saito caught. He got up to start pulling the covers back over the bodies. Their talk was not over.

"All that the police would eventually have dealt with — thieves, con-men, traffickers, street thugs and the such." Saito's eyes flickered up, a hollow glint in them. "If the police were half competent. You know, our missing children stats have been climbing ever since the Yakuza had set up shop here. Yet the authorities have been useless as usual."

Saito sneered inwardly. Such a small technically, but Kenshin's mouth quirked up at it: Saito didn't think himself as part of the police — they were a body unto themselves, and he was apart from them despite being their Commissioner. He couldn't control every aspect of their movements and competence, he certainly didn't give them the benefit of the doubt, and he would sooner trust Hitokiri Battousai himself than the hordes of underlings that swore they saw him appear and cannibalise someone last week.

Kenshin retraced his steps, heading back to help him, pulling the covers back over the bodies with great care. "Shishou has kept out of human affairs for more than ten years," he said. "I cannot vouch that he hasn't killed anyone within those years, or that he won't from now on. We don't…operate on the same values."

"He's a samurai. I don't expect any self-respecting swordsman to take an oath like you did."

_"Hah._ Yes. But times have changed. And for what it's worth — it's not like him. This is highly uncharacteristic of Shishou, to do what he did in the city."

"If it makes a difference — he's been getting rid of what the police can't. But Himura," Saito's voice came with an edge. "Death penalty is not a given. Besides, it's not something that master of yours can dole out as he pleases."

Kenshin nodded. "No, it isn't," he agreed.

A corner of Saito's mouth curled. "Are we on the same side, Himura?"

Kenshin lingered, saying nothing. The light outside seemed to be leaving fast. "I do not know the answer to that yet."

He turned to leave.

"Battousai. Wait."

Kenshin slowed to a stop, looking over his shoulder. Saito stuck his hand into his breast pocket, rummaging around to produce a crumpled piece of paper. He tossed it at Kenshin, who caught it and smoothed it out in his palms. He read out loud a familiar message: _Tenchuu._ Heaven's Justice. It was a revolutionary phrase employed by the agents of the Ishin Shishi, to call their goals part of Heaven's mandate, and to claim their government as one blessed by Heaven. Heaven's Justice became a calling card for the Ishin Shishi. Kenshin had penned this phrase many times before, it was part of his duties as the Ishin Shishi's assassin to scatter this message upon the bodies of those he'd disposed of.

Beneath the phrase on the strip of paper, the calling card, Kenshin read: "Heaven's Justice. By the hand of — _Himura Battousai?"_ He looked up from the paper. "This was on the bodies?"

"No," Saito said. "These," Saito pulled another strip of calling card, and another, and another from his pockets, with the deadpan ease of a street-side magician. In any other context, the gesture would have been comical. Except there was no applause, because the audience was Kenshin, and his eyes did not appreciate the sleight of hand but actually widened in increasing horror.

"We have have buckets of these back at the station. The first murder apparently attributed to you occurred months ago. We found_ these_ calling cards — just like the ones the Ishin Shishi left during the revolution — upon the bodies. But those murders weren't like these latest ones. They were random. They were innocents. Shopkeepers. Teachers. Paper men. Dango sellers. Builders. All of them murdered in different fashions with only one similarity."

"The Tenchuu calling cards," Kenshin echoed. "…This one's old prerogative."

"Yes," Saito agreed. "But you're here _now_ and not months ago because they called _me _to look at the blood and gore. There've been plenty of copy cats. Fakes. You're a big name, Himura, all the sick, repulsive human garbage wrong in the head _adore_ you, want to _please_ you, want to _be_ you. In this city, your name means something."

The reasoning was simple — Battousai legends were intwined into the culture of Kyoto City and a favourite scapegoat of petty killers, thieves and townspeople. Kenshin did not forget the circumstances in which he'd come to meet Kaoru — when her life was being pulled apart by a false Battousai welding the Kamiya Kasshin ryu. His ghost seemed to part from him constantly, haunting so many places and people at once. Kenshin looked down. Awash with shame.

"But the people killed with these calling cards. They weren't murdered by Hiten Mitsurugi ryu, were they?" Kenshin asked.

"No," Saito agreed. "That's the confusing part. We know," Saito rolled his eyes to denote the rest of the police force, "we know that someone has been using your name to feel big and important while they sliced through a cross section of Kyoto. The killings have been sloppy, the styles unremarkable. The victims arrive singularly — one by one. I didn't need you to grace me with your exalted presence to know you didn't snap and start slaughtering innocents for the fun of it, exciting as that may be," Saito rasped. "The only notable thing is that—"

"My name," Kenshin cut in. He smoothed out the calling card, flipping it around to present it back to Saito, as if he hadn't spent days pouring over every detail of it. _"Himura _Battousai,_"_ he read again.

He paused. There were marks on the back of the slip.

"…People knew me as Hitokiri Battousai," Kenshin said, voice low. There was no sense of pride in him, only a tinge of discomfort in his voice as he said it. "People knew me as Manslayer, as Assassin, as Battou-jutsu master. How many people are still alive who knew me as _'Himura?'"_

Saito nodded. Then he stood up, straightened his back until he towered over Kenshin again, and splayed his arms in jest. "That would make _me_ one of your prime suspects."

Saito smiled jaggedly, hoping to get a rise out of him, but Kenshin wasn't in the mood. Saito might have been one of the only few left who knew his past as Himura, but the thought of him going around killing people under someone else's name, let alone Kenshin's, sounded preposterous. _Aku, Soku, Zan; _to slay evil immediately was Saito's creed. That aside, Kenshin simply knew it wasn't him the way Saito knew it wasn't Kenshin. After everything they had gone through being on opposite sides of a war, they held a startling, strange sort of clarity when it came to one another.

"Any other observations?" Saito inquired. He leaned in as if keen.

There was some kind of symbol on the back. Kenshin slowly brought the calling card closer, eyes squinting at two strange, even blotches with stems protruding from them. They didn't look like words…what were they?

"Hm. That was my exact reaction," Saito noted. He sounded sour. "You don't know what that is either, I take it?"

"…Some kind of symbol. Looks like…perhaps two fans, facing each other?"

"Or two shells, diagonally placed against each other."

If the imposters were truly targeting or using Hitokiri Battousai in some way, the symbol must have something to do with him. Kenshin's mind whirled away, trying to match the symbol…but to no avail. His mind came up empty. He put it down. "This lowly one doesn't know what this is."

Kenshin pocketed the calling card to think on later.

Saito went back to leaning coolly on the wall. But his expression seemed troubled, his hopes unceremoniously dashed. Saito had been sure Kenshin would somehow recognise the symbol. And he _really_ didn't like being wrong.

Few could tell this was not an authentic recreation of the Ishin Shishi's calling cards, the two of them part of that ever thinning pool. But judging by Saito's reaction, Kenshin knew it had been the only thing the wolf had to go on.

"The ones with calling cards weren't murdered by Hiten Mitsurugi ryu," Saito said. "But the ones discovered last week, without calling cards, on the other hand, were. Imagine my pleasant surprise when I stumble upon a _nice_ multiple homicide for once, without your stupid, fucking, _mocking _little Tenchuu calling card, only to discover that for the first fucking time — it is indeed the fruits of Hiten _fucking _Mitsurugi ryu."

At this point, Saito pulled off his gloves, threw them on the nearest covered body, and slapped his hands over his face. He wiped down tiredly.

His entire cool, amused facade seemed too much effort to keep up. He just slumped, hair bangs vibrating with gel and sweat, seeming tired beyond measure.

"So there are two killers," Kenshin confirmed. "One using my old calling card. And one using my style."

By process of elimination, they'd already established the one using Kenshin's style could only be Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth. That left the other, using his old calling card. Who were they? And how did they know Hitokiri Battousai was Himura Kenshin, a closely guarded secret of the Ishin Shishi and the government to this day? Most of Kenshin's contemporaries had passed, including his commanding officer Katsura Kogoro, and other Shishi leaders such as Okubo. Saito was the only remaining Shinsengumi leader. Shishio and the rest were long gone.

"And," Saito gestured quaintly to the dead bodies, "what do you think the rest of the force and the people of this city think of these?"

Kenshin looked towards them again. "…They would not be able to see the difference. They would see the culprit as one and the same. They would take me as responsible for both."

Saito made a sound of approval.

"Keep your sword at your side," he snapped, turning on a dime. "I can't—_won't_ offer you protection. The rest of the force want to put their claws into you and they haven't on my account. But I can't say the same for every idiot out there."

Kenshin sighed casually. Like being accused of doing the one thing he'd sworn off was just a minor embarrassing inconvenience.

"Himura," Saito called again. He seemed to struggle with getting his words out this time, with an uncomfortable look on his usually stern, placid face. "…If these fools arrest you, I'll break you out. We are going to catch the impersonators and your master." He stared at Kenshin with pensive eyes. Kenshin met them, knowing what Saito was asking of him, and knowing what he truly meant: that he would at a moment's notice give up everything he had in his reconstructed, post-revolution life to see the false Battousais get justice.

That was surprisingly candid of him.

Saito's eyes narrowed wolfishly. "You're going to fight. And you're going to _mean_ it, aren't you?"

Kenshin nodded. He clutched the hilt of his sakabatou, lifting it, emphasising his equal devotion. "Consider this my responsibility."

Saito scoffed. It was a token effort to pretend to be disgusted by Kenshin as usual — but even Kenshin could see the relieving effect of being assured an ally in the upcoming fight. After all, who else could he have gone to? Who else could have understood him and the gravity of this situation?

Only another relic of the past.

The two of them, antiquated enemies, stood close.

Then Saito pulled himself off the wall, passing Kenshin to get back to work. He whistled to the two guards outside, commanding them to close the morgue. "Right. I've seen enough of you. Get back to your wife and the rest of the cavalry."

Kenshin, almost reflexively, put his hand up to wave before he realised what he was doing. He finally turned to leave.

"Goodbye, Saito."

* * *

**Notes. **

Thanks to SiriusFan13 for letting me use their Hiko Seijuro XIII backstory, like his name being Himura Miki. It's an awesome take on grumpy old Hiko 13 and I hope to reflect that here. Little Miki is actually 12 years old in 1848, but he's just been kinda malnourished so he seems smaller. More on this later!

It felt really weird to say that the cloak was white leather. But, what other material could have lasted that long? For 100-200 years? Only leather, right? Please imagine it as a kind of thin, pleasing kind of leather.

I really love Kenshin and Saito begrudgingly being friends. Frenemies. Whatever they are. It's compelling. They used to try kill one other every night, but now it's the future and it's like. Everyone else they know is dead but each other. Saito is actually personally offended these lowlives are impersonating his fav murderer to fight back in the war. There's a weird kind of kinship to them.


	4. Chapter 4

A long chapter! The 1848 flashback picks up from last chapter. Two samurai and one attendant woman have happened across Miki and Hiko 12 on the mountain.

* * *

**1848**

Lying upon the outskirts of the prefecture was a mountain, and upon the mountain in the midst of a thick wood forrest was a clearing, and in the clearing stood the last of the onna-bugeisha class, a long endangered species, and her young disciple, a well-bred, privileged boy from a line of nobility that had all but died out. They stood packed together like startled rabbits in tall grass, swordsmen caught out by strangers and their polite greetings, like they hadn't a clue civil society still existed out there.

"Young Master Himura! I salute you." The woman Miki recognised as an attendant of his family fell to her knees, bowing deeply.

Hiko Seijuro the Twelfth and Miki had no choice but to put their argument on standby and act like they had not just been screaming at each other when the newcomers came rushing up to them. They separated quickly, Miki violently pushing Hiko and himself apart, Hiko prodding Miki away with the sheathe of her sword.

"Young Master, oh my gods, thank the buddha! You're alive. You're alive and well!" The attendant let out a dramatic sob, and actually grasped at the ends of Miki's hakama. She looked up at him with large, hopeful eyes, as if he were the last part of an important equation, a complete puzzle spread.

The other two men followed, going to their knees before Miki and looking at him with just as much enthusiasm. "Oh…it _is_ you, Young Master. We've finally found you."

"We thought you were dead, Young Master!"

The men muttered incessantly, rising from their knees.

Hiko Seijuro took one look at them and her demeanour changed. She took a measured step back, a spring ready to support a charging attack, and reached for her sword.

"Shishou!" Miki leapt in front of her. "Please, don't. I know them — I know their faces. They were in my father's employ. They're from my clan."

Hiko stared at the newcomers with a surprisingly loathsome face. But as her eyes lowered to Miki's, the thin line of her mouth softened. She gave him a sympathetic look. "You don't have a clan anymore, Miki."

She was right. Below the mountain there used to lie not a few scattered, penniless villages, but a strong, wealthy clan estate, and within that estate there used to be a powerful, proud family, and now there lay nothing but scattered ashes on the wind, abandoned wastelands from which people fled from war and wildfire, long grass watered by blood.

Hiko Seijuro was right. Miki had no clan. But the truth in her words inflamed Miki, causing him to grit his teeth and see red. She had promised him there was no one else. She had even gone down the mountain to check, to look for survivors or clan vassals, each time coming back shaking her head.

Had she lied to him?

Had she deceived him so Miki could be keep being her disciple?

Blissfully ignorant.

Miki turned back to the attendants. "Don't call me Young Master. I was never called that before. What are you doing here?"

The samurai and attendant looked at one another. "We're here to bring you home, Young Master…there have been rumours that a Himura heir survived the fire! When we who were loyal to your father heard this, we immediately set out to find you."

"Young Master Miki," the attendant woman said, getting off her knees to look at his face, regarding him like he was the centre of the universe, "we're here to bring you home."

"I don't have a home."

Miki looked to the Himura Clan insignia on their clothes: two ginkgo leaves on a single stalk. Splayed like fans in symmetrical fashion. Still bright and proud. It had been too dangerous to wear this identifier after Miki had left; he had stripped his gi and locked the ginkgo insignia away in a chest. But here they were, scratched but still adorned on samurai armour, on vassals who were pledged to the Himura Clan.

"What happened after the fire?" Miki asked. "Were my mother, father, and brother's remains ever found? Where have they been laid to rest?"

The attendants shuffled, looking between each other forlornly. The attendant woman stroked her dagger. "Young Miki, we'd tell you everything, but…"

Her eyes darted to the looming form of Hiko, who had crossed her arms and was looking at the surviving Himura attendants with a look of distaste. Like she was having trouble swallowing a particularly bitter pill. As they all turned to stare at her, Hiko shut her eyes, uncrossed her arms, and began walking away.

"Take your guests to the house, deshi. Speak to them there. Ask them whatever you need to, get it out of your system," she said, as she wandered away. "I'll go to the well, fetch some _water." _

With that, Hiko Seijuro coldly left them.

Miki, now feeling especially exposed out in the open — where he hadn't been able to sense the attendants until they were practically in his face — invited them indoors to the hut. Once inside, the samurai kept staring about the hut, taking in the humble shelves, the dirt floor, the simple, straw shades, and seemed shocked at the living arrangements of the last surviving Himura heir. The only thing not made of clay, terracotta or straw in the hut were a few wooden bokkens and swords on a home-made rack.

It seemed, quietly, to dawn on the guests that this was the perfect cover to hide a prideful Himura.

Even if they had the gall to make the trek up the mountain, no one could possibly think of a wealthy Himura heir squatting in such a humble abode. Hiko Seijuro the Twelfth had been a wanderer herself, travelling to find a disciple until she ended up in the crossfire between the Himuras and their enemies.

The samurai and attendant knelt opposite to Miki, all eyes on him. "…So this is where you've been all this time, Young Master?"

Miki nodded. "I didn't know…I was not aware there was still…still people left. I thought the Hanadas burned everything."

"They did," the first man said. "Those Hanada scum!"

"They burned everything to the ground," the second said. "…Your family perished, that is true, Young Master…but some of your people survived. Many still loyal to your father. After we heard one of your father's sons had escaped, had survived — we went looking!"

Miki could barely believe his ears. He asked after his family again, but the samurai looked down, ashamed, before they told him nothing was ever found. The fire had destroyed everything, no remains could be recovered. The surviving Himura loyalists from his father's employ had sent scouts out to find the surviving son, hoping to restore the clan. Although they did not say it, Miki could tell by the conflicted looks on their faces they had hoped it was his strong brother who survived. Miki briefly wondered if the samurai and attendant were disappointed to find him instead.

Before long, the conversation turned to their current affairs. The attendant laid out their wishes to have him return.

"Please, come with us," the samurai begged. "Come back to the village. You can't be safe here. We're not the only ones searching. There are also scouts from the Hanada Clan, who have heard the same rumours as we. They are hunting you, Young Master."

"You must return," the attendant said. "You're a Himura."

Miki shuffled on the ground uncomfortably, looking anywhere but at them. He hadn't known there were people this loyal to his father, to his Clan, that there were people waiting for his return, no matter which son had survived.

People had fled for their lives from the villages at the foot of the mountain, from the many farmlands scattered around. They had fled from war and conquest. To Miki, there was no one else on earth more adept in the art of war and conquest then the Himura Clan, who had started those wars, sparked conflict, snatched land after land, and drove many other clans to extinction — all under the insignia of the twin ginkgo leaves.

Miki didn't know what to think.

At this moment, the attendant brazenly reached out, seizing Miki's hand. It prompted Miki to look up in alarm.

"Please, Young Master," she said, smiling with hardship behind her eyes. It seemed like she was the one who was having trouble swallowing a particularly bitter pill, forcing words out of her mouth. "Come back with us. We will protect you."

Miki thought about it. Thought about the great, white cloak whipping in the wind, the crescent moon insignia upon his master's sword. The number thirteen. These things were once promised to him. When his brother Masakazu started training with the sword, his father, Himura Kin, had renamed Masakazu with a proud warrior's name. His father never gave Miki another name. Miki felt branded with a child's name, a civilian name, a name without meaning or heritage. But this problem seemed so transient, so temporary — as he'd known for almost every day since Hiko Seijuro the Twelfth took him in that he would inherit her's.

Now even that promise seemed to be broken, and he was the one to break it. Everything that Miki knew was like a bunch of dust flying away on the wind, dispersing into the air. Rays of sunlight easily obscured. Writing in sand, washing away. Himura Miki had nothing here. And yet, when his father's samurai asked him to return, to take his place as his father's heir, he said:

"No."

"Young Master?!"

Miki stood up. "No. I am not going back. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but no one called me Young Master when — within the Himura Clan. My brother — _he_ was the Young Master. Himura Masakazu was the heir. My father hated me. I was called a bastard son, nothing in his eyes. And I'm not a naive child," Miki said, facing towards them with fire in his eyes. "…What my father did was nothing I can, or should be proud of. I'm not going back with you.

Miki gestured to the door. "You should leave."

He expected them to anger. To beg and plead. To have a reaction, to yell out, curse him. But instead, the attendant just shrugged, giving a measured, amused look to the others. She seemed to share unspoken words with the two samurai. None of them were looking at Miki, and none of them acted as if they'd heard a single word Miki had said.

Instead, the attendant rolled to the side off her knees, lounging with languid ease. "Oh well, it would have been better if he came, but we can do it here."

"You think so?"

"The tall lady's probably two hundred steps away. No one's coming for him."

"Yeah, I guess. This is the perfect place, 'suppose."

"No one to hear a scream, right?"

"Okay, we'll do it your way."

"Right. You two can ambush the tall lady when she brings us drinks."

That Miki could think there were people that were actually loyal to his father and Clan, or that there could possibly be people waiting for his return, was an almost comedic fantasy. That they had called him 'Young Master' and he, like a fool, did not pick up on the joke, just proved that he was just as much a child he was the night he was scared of something as elementary as the dark.

Believing their stories, their indulgent white lies, even if for a moment, was a boy playing make-believe.

Miki dived for the swords. But the first samurai moved when he did, a hand clamping shut on his ponytail. Miki was yanked back by the hair, pulled sideways to smash into the wall, and then yanked back up again.

"Oh, Young Master — young, young, dumb, dumb, Master. Should have looked at your face when we said you could come back. Tsk, tsk." He put his hand over Miki's face, pushing him violently into the shelves, smashing his head through them.

"Wait, wait, Yin, don't mark his face!" the attendant said, her voice piercingly loud. "We need him to be recognisable when we put his head on a Hanada pike."

The other of the two men grasped the collar of his gi, hauled him back up. He pushed him into the opposite wall hard, forcing him against it. Then he leaned in, speaking into his ear. "Bastard boy, did you really think there could be anyone left loyal to Himura Kin?"

Miki said nothing, just spat his defiance.

The samurai sighed. He pointed to the Himura insignia on his armour. The twin ginkgo leaves gleamed, the scratches on it clear to him now. They had been inflicted deliberately, scratched out with the tip of a sword.

"See this, bastard?" The samurai shook Miki forcefully until he looked. "This shit is real. I worked like a _dog _for your father. Your father, your blithering, murdering, thief of a father. How do you think we started working for him? Oh right. He burned our farms, killed our dads, sold our mums. Fucked our sisters. Then he made us fight for him. Bleed for him. Do you want to know how the Himura estate could possibly have been breached by those _petty little Hanada scum? _It wasn't. The fire was started by _us_. By Himura clansmen. We signalled whatever was left of the Hanada Clan to attack with the fire. We were done slaving for a man like Himura Kin."

Miki wriggled out of the man's hold, yelling and grunting. Deep down he knew they were right. His father was not a good man, far from it, and he probably deserved his end. He had killed hundreds of people needlessly, beheaded generations of men and women for his own gain. The more the Himura estate grew, the more of their subdued enemies there were to be forced to submit. Himura Kin was hated by everyone, the Himura name nothing but a tainted one. A warlord's name. A tyrant's call to arms.

But tears streamed down Miki's face anyway, because these men started the fire that burned down his house; they started the fire that killed his mother, that killed his beloved brother _Masakazu_ — and that was unforgivable.

Miki grabbed the first sword he could, slipped to his side, and with all the power he could muster, and with all the fury of the Hiten Mitsurugi ryu — he pushed forward with perfect, concise battou-jutsu.

A large chasm of a breakage appeared in the traitor samurai's armour, pressing parts of the distorted chest piece into him. He screeched in pain. Miki braced to attack again, but the training sword he'd picked was heavy and largely blunt, one of the ones he hadn't yet worked up the strength to train with yet; the second samurai easily parried, wedging it deep into the walls. Miki yanked, trying desperately to free it, but was forced to let go as the samurai slashed at him.

In the time the samurai and Miki had clashed, the attendant woman had moved as well, snatching the rest of the swords away, well out of reach. With no sword, the second samurai laughed and threw his own sword confidently away. Then he advanced on Miki. They scuffled about in the hut, legs, arms, knees kicking and whacking. Miki, no match in strength to an adult samurai, was easily pushed to the ground.

"Pst! Miss Eiku! Hand me my sword."

"Why did you throw it if you were just going to get me to hand it back?" the woman, Eiku, said indignantly. She reached out. As she did, her outer cloak parted, exposing the round crest of another clan insignia. A single, four-petaled hydrangea flower. The insignia of the Hanada Clan.

Eiku unsheathed the sword, awkward in her movements as someone who wasn't used to handling them.

But the second she handed the sword to him, Miki would die.

Yet the sword never reached Miki's would-be-killer. The high pitched sound of tamehagane steel clashing with metal sounded, the pleasing, familiar clang of Winter Moon breaking the atmosphere. Blinking up, Miki was just in time to witness Hiko Seijuro put her sword through his attacker's throat. Through the throat, the tip of it was pointed straight in Miki's face.

"Get up, Miki."

Eiku screamed, her voice piercing, and she and the first samurai Miki wounded, Yin, escaped out the hut.

The dead samurai's body fell forward on Miki, his blood wetting his clothes, pooling on the floor.

"Himura Miki, _I said get up!"_

Hearing his master's voice clearly, Miki obeyed.

"Hold back the woman!" Hiko commanded. "We can't let them escape. They know your face and where to find you!"

The samurai with the chest wound turned to face Hiko, unsheathing his sword adorned with the twin ginkgos. He charged at her. Hiko's sword strikes looked like a series of flashing mirrors, all blue and white glint as she chopped him to pieces. There were no screams to be heard.

But as Miki stared down the traitor attendant at the same time, her hateful eyes locked on him, the Hanada insignia triggering images in his mind — his sword weighed down on him down once again. He hesitated to use another battou-jutsu. Eiku looked at him, saw the hesitation in his eyes. Then, lips turning up, she simply turned away and ran into the woods.

Hiko yelled in frustration._ "Miki!" _

She stared down on him incredulously, like she couldn't believe he couldn't take such an easy target. "Why did you not use Hiten Mitsurugi ryu?"

"Shishou, I—"

"This is what I'm training you for!" Hiko yelled, throwing her hands up in the air, the blood on Winter Moon flicking onto Miki's face. It was warm. "This is the entire point, Himura Miki! If you can't do this then why did I make you my deshi?"

She looked at him, ashamed of what she saw. Miki simply breathed, then faced her. "You can read ki. You knew they would draw their weapons on me."

Hiko's eyes narrowed. "Baka-deshi. A disciple at your level should have easily been able to defend himself."

Hearing this, Miki's face went placid, calm. He relaxed abruptly. "All you care about is Hiten Mitsurugi ryu."

Hiko grimaced. She was shocked and unready for his words. "…If you won't even use it to save your life, then don't bother forfeiting your role as my successor, I'll drop you like a sack of potatoes!" She said, annoyed. "Yes! I care about handing down the style, yes, baka-deshi! My ryu cannot be lost to time. Do you have any idea what I had to go through to be what I am? I will not be the weak link, I will not disappoint all eleven of my forebears because _you_ forgot swordsmanship is the art of _killing!"_

Miki grimaced back at her, balling his hands into fists, screaming back. "I am the son of samurai! Of course I know! I know it!" he screeched back. "—That's why I know there's no honour in killing your master!"

Hiko stared down at him, hearing his accusations. That she was dishonourable, because she learned the succession technique — and her master was dishonourable, because he learned it too; and his master, and his master, and his master. That no technique could justify the greatest sin in bushido, as swordsmen. That Hiten Mitsurugi ryu was ignoble.

She had carelessly revealed to him the succession technique. Only now did she know how much of a mistake it was.

The silence stretched on between them, the blood on Hiko's sword dripping obscenely, every moment they stood there staring a moment more for the enemy Eiku to escape.

Miki looked away. "If not me, you can get another deshi."

Hiko Seijuro's eyes widened perceptively. Then she shut her mouth, curled her cloak around her, and stalked after the Eiku woman, walking into the woods and leaving Miki behind.

"Yes. I can."

Miki watched her tall, white form disappear into the thick of the woods, her prints appearing alongside the attendant's. He began walking back, past the several pieces of the first samurai, back to the hut where another body lay.

Then he simply walked past the hut, out of the clearing, into the woods on the opposite side, until he, too, disappeared.

* * *

**1885**

"Hello, Madam! What may I get for you?"

"Information."

"—Pardon?"

"About missing persons, preferably," Hiko said without losing a beat. She laid her arms on the table, taking up space.

It had been weeks since Hiko Seijuro the Twelfth had killed the traitor Himura samurai, weeks after she spent hours hunting the Hanada Eiku woman in the woods like a needle in a haystack, and weeks since she had turned her back on Miki — and he'd vanished.

At first, she'd paid no mind to the missing Miki, thinking it was much more pertinent for her to silence the Hanada assassin. But after days had passed, the guilty itch at the back of her head had magnified. Neither of their shadows had ever shown up. Hiko Seijuro soon realised Miki had left, going out into the open where Hiko had just let loose a Hanada assassin who knew of his existence.

"Missing persons…have you filed a police report?" the waitress asked, bewildered.

Hiko held back a sigh. "I have," she lied, "but I hear that the owner of this shop could give me a little more…precision for what I want. I'm looking for a boy. I don't trust the police." Besides, whenever did a such a thing as an armed assault group, a body following no lord, occur? Hiko had basically turned around and the Tokugawa Shogunate instated an entirely new thing called a police force. It seemed highly dubious to her.

She tapped a finger on the end of the table, a little show of impatience.

The waitress began wiping down the table, prompting Hiko to lift her arms and lean back into the seat. "I'm sorry, Madam, but the Shirobeko is a restaurant and tea house. If there's any food or drink I could get you, please ask."

Before the waitress could leave, Hiko seized her sleeve, stopping her. Before the waitress could protest, she dropped it. It was an awfully rude gesture, but Hiko had left all her qualms at the mountain, fearing nothing. Not even of looking discourteous.

"It took me a long time to find the Shirobeko," she said lowly. There were a few sparse customers sitting in the teahouse solitarily, but otherwise the place was mostly empty at this odd hour. Hiko swallowed and looked the waitress in the eyes. "They call themselves the 'Yakuza.' You know of them?"

A few of the other patrons turned their heads. Some of them tried to mind their own business, looking intently away. One of them stared openly.

The waitress's eyes widened in more bewilderment. Hiko felt like a bully after noticing the flash of fear in her eyes. It seemed that 'Yakuza' was a name she should remember, if this girl was afraid of them. "Yes, yes. I'll get the manager for you."

It was getting late outside, but not late enough for a teahouse to close its doors, though most of the other patrons began to thin out and leave. The waitress tended to them before disappearing into the back. Hiko eyed the few others at the table, mostly men enjoying a drink after a day at work. Out of the corner of the eye, she briefly noticed the patron who had turned to stare before only had nine fingers as he lifted his cup.

Another lady's shoes clacked against the floorboards, bringing her attention to it. With a small, practical apron covering the intricate flower pattern over her kimono, and her hair tied up casually with a sash, she placed a tea set upon the table with a slight bow. There were two cups on the tray. She sat down opposite her. "Allow me, Madam," she said as she poured the tea.

"You must be the owner, I presume?" Hiko asked, impressed.

"Yes. I'm Saekihara Sae, nice to meet you."

Hiko smiled. Guilt tugged at her suddenly, to bother these civilians while their establishment was near closing time, but she had no choice.

"Call me Seijuro, please," she said, not wanting to give away her surname lest someone recognised it, but all it seemed to do was draw Sae's attention that it was a man's name. "I'm very sorry about startling the waitress. Would you please convey my apologies to her later?"

"Of course," Sae said, taking a sip from the cup.

Hiko did the same. "I am looking for someone I've lost. A boy. But it's been a while now and I'm beginning to get concerned. Wandering aimlessly around isn't helping anyone and I need to find him as soon as possible," she said quickly, straight to the point.

Sae nodded once, concern falling over her face. The man at the other table seemed to look over again.

The second Hiko mentioned a boy, Sae's features had softened with sympathy. "I'm so sorry. It seems you've fallen prey to those kidnappers too. If you've seen the posters outside the police station, you'll know many children have gone missing as of late. I'm sorry."

Sae looked down. "You've already contacted the police, I hear. It's a good start, they'll do everything they can to help you."

"The police seem to me to be concerned with only law and order," Hiko said, like all lordly authorities. "All I want is my boy back."

Sae sat there, blowing softly on her tea. Then she stared at it, as if it held all the answers to this conversation. Most of the other patrons had filed out by this point. The man at the other table, with the nine-fingers, also got up and left. After a while Sae sat up and smiled politely.

"You're not with the Yakuza," she said abruptly.

"No. I'm not." Hiko frowned. "Is it such a title that elicits fear?"

Sae nodded. "Things are changing again," she said, without the fear of being overheard. "There will always be crime in Kyoto city, but the Yakuza have elevated it into art form. They grow more violent by the day. " She shrugged into the tea. "Some have grown strong enough to force shops and restaurants to pay levy." Sae smiled again, but this time it was a smile with nothing behind the eyes. She refilled Hiko's cup. "But anyway, you haven't come to right place, unless you were looking for conversation and tea. The Shirobeko really is just a restaurant."

"A restaurant with protection."

Sae blinked, something working behind her eyes, going crystal clear again as thoughts undoubtedly raced behind them. Hiko leaned in. "I'm not here for trouble, I swear it, Miss Sae." She pulled her sword from her obi, placing it silently on the ground. Sae's eyes had been darting to it all the time, her figure straight and guarded.

"I was led to the Shirobeko for a reason. You do not pay a levy to the criminals because there are consequences for touching your restaurant. Your establishment is not intimidated because you have powerful friends. At least, that is what I hear." Hiko finished, hoping that Sae would fill in the details so that she wouldn't have to keep listing.

Sae sighed, putting down the pot. "Not powerful in such a fast changing city," she corrected, "but _good _friends." She tipped her quarter-full cup over, water spilling atop the table. Then, dipping her finger into it, Sae began to draw out a crude map over the tabletop. After the first few lines of the street were drawn, she paused. "I only tell you this because you're looking for someone important to you. This isn't something to be shared openly," Sae warned, and Hiko nodded at her conditions.

So Sae continued, drawing a line of blotches, and then a line more of blotches. Then a straight lines connected to show streets and roadways. Kyoto was already much more complicated than Seijuro remembered, but it looked worse upon bird eye dots-of-water-on-table.

"This is the Shirobeko," Sae pointed. "This is one of the main streets. Here, the market. The head police station. And here," she accentuated, eyes flickering up, "The Aoiya Inn."

Seijuro lifted a brow, wondering what was so ominous about the larger water splotch of inn. "The _Aoiya,"_ she repeated. "Alright."

"It's a mid-sized inn, quite well-known in Kyoto, run by Kashiwazaki Nenji and his family." Sae looked up, as if the name should ring a bell. Or perhaps Hiko just had a face that looked like important names would ring a bell. Hiko did accept that she lived beneath the equivalent of a rock.

"When you get to the Aoiya, you will ask to see Kashiwazaki-san. Miss Seijuro, when you see Kashiwazaki-san, you will address him by another name. _'Okina.'_ "

Hiko tapped on her knee, as the table was occupied, filing the instructions away. "Okina," she echoed. "Understood."

"Okina is the one that can help you find who you're looking for." Sae wiped the table with her hand, rubbing out the map. "But please don't alert anyone else of what I've told you. The Aoiya is the only one capable of inhibiting the Yakuza like they do. They are the only ones who have stood up to them. Their base in secret. If they accept the task of finding your son, they will take it seriously. They will take it more seriously than even the police. Please be discreet."

Hiko nodded. She did not try to correct her that her missing boy was not her son. She got up, picking up her sword, tying it to her obi again and parting her cloak to do it. It revealed the worn hilt of a smaller wakizashi sword beneath, eliciting a surprised look from Sae. "I understand completely. Thank you, Miss Sae." And then, "…You trust this Aoiya and Okina, do you not?"

Sae got up and bowed. "Yes. Many do. And yet no one knows what they're _really doing_ for this city."

Hiko bowed her head in Sae's direction and got up to leave.

"Wait," Sae said, and Hiko did. "How did you know to come here?"

Hiko pursed her lips, looked to the ceiling as if in thought. "A nice man told me before he, so unfortunately, died."

Then Hiko departed.

Behind her, someone followed in her tracks, keeping to the dark.

* * *

**In the Market**

"Yes, but I don't understand why we need two of those." Yahiko crossed his arms, boredly eyeing the two woven baskets Megumi was holding up for inspection. "Are we here to buy the whole market?"

"Not we. _She._" Megumi nodded in Kaoru's general direction. Kaoru hadn't retorted like she usually would have, she seemed completely absorbed by the large mountain of turnips teetering on the edge of a market vendor's table.

Megumi and Yahiko stopped dead for a minute, genuinely mesmerised by Kaoru picking up each individual turnip and inspecting them as if trying to discover a new strain of bacteria. She seemed to be hyper-focused, in deep thought. A large, filled sack of purchases was already slung over her shoulders, and no amount of manoeuvring could have possibly fit another turnip into that bag.

Thus, Megumi deliberated with Yahiko on which basket to purchase.

Sano, lounging in a chair that was for sale, shrugged. "She's the one holding the money. Kaoru decides."

"Because you're a good for nothing slacker, yes." Megumi reached into her sleeves to produce her own wallet as Sano fumed at the comment.

"Sir, are you going to buy that chair, or?" the chair vendor asked.

"Um."

They watched Sano get booted from the seat with smug satisfaction. But even that could only briefly distract them from the gravity of their situation. It seemed strange — counter-productive — that they were here, critiquing things in the market, when their dear friend was busy being accused of murder.

This could have been any ordinary day in Tokyo. Going out. Bickering. Going shopping. But it was not.

"Are we done yet?" Yahiko uncrossed his arms and straightened up from leaning on a stall. "If we're done we should get back to Kenshin." He sniffed, making a face. "I don't trust the Shinsengumi police."

"Tch. You're not special. We all don't trust the Saito police," Sano added snidely.

Megumi put the basket in Yahiko's arms before he could jump forward and wrestle Sano in the middle of a crowded market. "That's besides the point." She gave them both a hard look. "Kenshin trusts him. And that's all that matters."

Sano's eyes popped, looking as if he couldn't believe Megumi could be this level-headed. But then he sighed tersely. "You realise what he's accusing him of is crazy, right?"

"Yeah! Crazy!" Yahiko heatedly dropped the basket before quickly picking it up again.

Megumi rolled her eyes. "Look. I'm going to tell you how the rest of this evening is going to go. We will _graciously_ get back to Ken-san at the station, by which time this will all be resolved — we will _graciously _thank Saito for his kind and thoughtful invitation, and then we will _graciously_ take the evening train back to Tokyo."

Megumi's pleasant voice dropped as she turned to Sano again. "I don't care about your personal misgivings about the Commissioner. If you try to jump Saito in front of the station I swear I _will_ poison your tea," she said with none of the grace she meant to exhibit.

Megumi emphasised this by grabbing the woven basket off of Yahiko and using it to whack Sano in the head. Sano did not dodge, even though he easily could have. The action barely moved him. Instead, he just stared at her, looking a little hurt she did not understand his sentiments.

"That's…that's not it…" Sano went quiet for a moment. "_I _don't have a problem with Saito. If these accusations prove anything — it's that _Saito_ has a problem with Kenshin." Sano mashed his hand to his face, looking stricken and wanting to be taken seriously. Never a wordsmith, he tried again.

"Think about it. Saito's had beef with Kenshin for — well, since the last damned era! They still haven't figured out who'll come out on top in a fight," he said, gesturing largely in typical Sano fashion. "As long as he sticks to that Aku, Soku, Zan code of his, he won't try anything weird. But, listen. If he's just looking for excuses to stab Kenshin, then he's looking for the wrong guy." Sano cracked his fingers, making a fist. "I'm the one with the _Aku_ kanji on my back."

Yahiko and Megumi stared at him.

"You think Saito summoned Kenshin here to settle a personal vendetta?" Megumi said, mulling the thought over.

"You think he's framing him?" Yahiko said. He looked down, making a face, his nose all scrunched up.

"Well, Kenshin can still beat him," Yahiko said vehemently. His hand curled around the wooden training sword at his side. It was a very Kenshin-esque motion, and both Sano and Megumi noticed this with some fondness.

But as Sano and Megumi shared a knowing look with each other, things seemed much more dour. Years ago, Kenshin was on startling equal grounds with Saito, who had brought him dangerously close to reverting back to the Battousai persona he'd vowed he'd shed. They both knew if it came to blows, it would not be clean nor easy. A fight between them now could only end in death.

Megumi shook her head to expel those thoughts.

"Where's Kaoru?" she said, changing the subject.

The three spun their heads, looking over the turnip stall where it was completely deserted.

* * *

Kaoru wandered the streets, heavy bag on her shoulder weighing her down as she tried to busy herself with thoughts of what to cook tonight and what vegetables she should purchase. Never mind that she never cooked at home, that was Kenshin's job, and the Aoiya would gladly feed them all so long as they stayed under their roof. But it worked for a while, Kaoru wandered down the market vacantly until she passed a newspaper stand.

Then her mind was occupied with Kenshin again.

The paper boy by the stand barely had to advertise, people were grasping paper after paper, hundreds of identical pieces all printed with a familiar heading:

**_New Victims Named: Hitokiri Battousai confirmed returned to Kyoto._**

She'd already read every word. Kaoru knew she shouldn't be worrying about Kenshin or feeling like coming here was a mistake, but she couldn't help it.

_"I need to go to Kyoto," Kenshin said. He was on edge. She heard it in his voice, felt it in the way he smiled at her to reassure her. Kaoru was far from reassured. _

_"But are you sure? What's wrong with a strongly worded letter?" someone else said. Megumi, perhaps. And then a bit of an argument ensued._

_Kenshin had smiled. "This is too important. I have to make the trip in person. Forgive me."_

_"It's alright," Kaoru piped up. "If you have to go, we'll go with you." _

_Their hands intertwined, Kenshin leaned into her. "We'll be your bodyguards," Kaoru said, and meant it. _

And yet she had let Kenshin go to see impossible evidence alone. Kaoru sighed, struggling to keep bits from falling out of the bag. There was something about this city that made Kenshin vulnerable. It held too much history and bad memories. It was the place Battousai was born and the hunting ground Battousai once ruled. But even the rumours were out of proportion. Battousai had killed, yes, but he was a revolutionary. He killed on the command of the Ishin Shishi. This was hard to understand for most, but Kaoru was not a child; Battousai was not some boogeyman breaking into people's homes, killing anyone, drawing any blood. The papers did not care for that, they seemed only concerned about fanning the flames of hysteria. Their Battousai was a rabid dog that bit anyone within its vicinity. A loose canon that struck any destination blindly. A monster.

History had become legend, and legend had become myth, and myth had devolved into rumours in Kyoto gossip columns, again claiming he was a man six feet tall, hair raven black, with red eyes, or blood-stained teeth, or made of formless smoke, invisible assassin. It was endless. Battousai folklore was something so divorced from Kenshin, there was barely any connection between them anymore.

Besides, the culprit to these murders could not literally, physically be Battousai, because Kaoru knew Battousai didn't exist anymore.

They didn't need to come here. Kenshin owed the Kyoto police and Saito nothing. But they came, because Kenshin needed to, and Kaoru and the others would support him. He came here because he was a good man, not caring about clearing his name — _that was beyond saving_ — he only wanted to stop more people from being hurt.

Kaoru's heavy things were about to slip right out of her fingers when suddenly, they became weightless. She looked up, wondering where her purchases had floated off to, when she was met with a shadowed silhouette. A large man was blocking out the leaving sun, coat fluttering about her. It was rather like walking into a wall. Kaoru took a step back, recognition working in her eyes. Then she bounded forward as she realised who it was.

"Hiko-sama!"

"…Hiko is fine."

Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth had lifted the heavy bag off her as if it were featherlight, slinging it easily against his back. He even rearranged the turnips, making it magically fit with the rest of the items, before turning sideways slightly to return the sunlight to her.

"Miss Kamiya," he greeted, nodding once and trying his best to hide his surprise. He was as surprised at seeing Kaoru as Kaoru was seeing him in public. "Hello."

"It's nice to see you again, Hiko-san," she beamed, glad to get the weight off of her arms. Kaoru looked around to alert the others only to realise she'd strayed from them. She was alone with Hiko Seijuro.

"Er, fancy meeting you here. What brings you down from the mountain?" she asked.

Kaoru regretted saying this immediately. She asked with a tone of befuddlement, like she'd spotted a nocturnal animal during the day, or a bird from a species that should have already migrated.

Why was it so hard to believe Hiko was here? He had to come down the mountain sometimes. He didn't literally sit around in his hut all day.

Hiko towered above the sea of people, his great, white cloak falling handsomely down his shoulders. It did its job, hiding his physique but emphasising his height. He kept his hair in a low ponytail, just like Kenshin —_ or was it the other way round_ — though he was able to keep his neat and tidy. Mingling in the marketplace, taking care not to obstruct Kaoru's light source or crash into kids running around the stalls, Hiko seemed, for the first time to Kaoru, utterly normal. Someone going out to do his groceries just like everyone else.

"I've been out of town for a while, actually," Hiko told her, and Kaoru realised he was performing small talk. "Which was just my luck. The weather's been especially disagreeable, as you must have experienced firsthand. I returned from Osaka just this morning." Beneath his cloak, jugs of alcohol clinked against each other. "Surprisingly, I, too, need supplies from the market," he deadpanned, parting his cloak to show his own sack of supplies.

Kaoru's face reddened, but she laughed at his quip.

"But fancy seeing you all the way from Tokyo." Hiko continued in the direction Kaoru was going. Kaoru speed walked at his side while Hiko walked in an easy, relaxed manner. "What brings you here?" he asked.

"Well." Kaoru paused, and paused too long.

It wasn't as if she could tell Hiko Seijuro, the master of her husband, that Kenshin was here to settle a dispute regarding the multiple murders attached to his name. His old name, albeit. Of course Hiko would know eventually if he didn't already, but Kenshin should be the one to tell him. But then again it didn't seem right for Kaoru to outright lie to him either. She began to sweat just a bit.

Then, a thought occurred to Kaoru. She remembered what Kenshin had said on the train.

_"What's up with your Shishou now?" Sano asked, insensitively._

_"My Shishou lives near Kyoto. He must have heard of these allegations...I wonder what he thinks of me."_

Kaoru turned back, resolved to tell a half-truth. "We're here to visit Tomoe-san's grave."

The diversion seemed to have worked as Hiko's brows rose, taken aback. After some thought, he uttered, "We?"

"All of us from the last time, Hiko-san. Megumi, Sanosuke and Yahiko included."

"That's quite a troupe to be visiting a grave."

"Yes. Festive." Kaoru mentally kicked herself, blurting out the first thing that popped into her mind.

"Yes," Hiko said without a beat, and he looked mildly confused as he said it.

They walked on in silence. There seemed to be something about Hiko that made Kaoru want to stare. He held himself in an almost…regal, aristocratic way; calmly sure of himself, graceful in spite of his tallness. Time had finally touched him. There were a few more lines on his angular face, a few grey hairs beginning to sprout amidst black. The fact that he hadn't gotten rid of them told her he didn't care how people viewed him. His vanity was not tied to his appearance. Kaoru wondered whether he even owned a mirror.

Hiko said he'd gone on a trip to Osaka. Even Kaoru knew how Hiko hated interaction with the outside world, why would he go so far from home? As Hiko walked, the _clink-clink_ of the sake bottles seemed to reverberate in Kaoru's ears, louder than they actually were. Kaoru looked down, finally tearing her gaze away. Was this what Hiko did all day? Make pots, travel by himself, and drink sake all alone in his little house?

"Kenshin," Hiko said.

"Pardon?"

"Kenshin…How is he?"

Kaoru thought about how to answer. She and Kenshin hadn't seen Hiko since more than five years ago, during Shishio's attack. When Kaoru and Kenshin had married, they sent a letter to the Aoiya, inviting everyone there to Tokyo for the ceremony. They had imagined a small ceremony, not expecting a big show-up — just their close friends and loved ones — but the entire Aoiya had come all the way with presents, sake and good cheer. The Aoiya had also helped them deliver another letter, penned to a lone potter on a lonely mountain, but their friends had come with news the letter was received but not answered.

Kenshin hadn't the heart to let himself expect his master would come. It had taken so much encouragement on Kaoru's part to make him pen Hiko's invitation. Despite not knowing him well, Kaoru understood that Hiko was as close to family as Kenshin had. What she didn't understand was why Hiko didn't write back at all, when the man clearly cared about Kenshin.

"…Why don't you ask Kenshin yourself?" Kaoru piped up pleasantly. She placed a hand on his arm, "I expect us to go up the mountain very soon anyway. I know Kenshin didn't alert you that we were coming, but the trip's been very last minute. Don't be too hard on him, Hiko-sama."

Hiko smiled a little this time. There was a hint of him being taken aback in the way he rolled his shoulders, raised his brows. Like he did not share the expectation that Kenshin would visit him, and was happy to be assured of it. He looked at Kaoru warmly.

"Hiko is fine."

Then he stopped and lowered Kaoru's purchases back into her hands.

"This is where I leave you, Miss Kamiya."

Kaoru bunched up her things. She looked up seriously. "You don't have to call me that, you know."

Hiko turned back, locking eyes with her. "You're right. A married woman should go by Lady. Lady…" Hiko trailed off.

His easy, aristocratic grace dissipated. In its place was a strange, far-away look in his eyes, cloudy with sudden realisation, until they went suddenly clear again. Hiko's mouth parted, and he looked at Kaoru as if seeing her for the first time.

"Lady Himura," he said.

Upon that admission, Kaoru chuckled. She was pleased with the address. But she shook her head, prompting two turnips to roll onto the floor. "Just Kaoru!"

To her surprise, Hiko actually bent to pick up the fallen turnips. His hair fell forward, his white cloak brushed against the dusty floor. He arranged them nicely back into her sack. Even picking up turnips from the floor seemed especially dignified when coming from Hiko.

"Alright, Just Kaoru. Goodbye."

Kaoru watched him leave. It soon became clear to Kaoru that he'd walked her through the market in the opposite direction to where was going. Simply a kind gesture. Kaoru watched as he went further and further into the distance, into the thinning crowds, until he disappeared.

Somewhere behind her, familiar voices called out.

"There she is, finally!"

"Kaoru! Kaoru, over here! Do you even look where you're going?!"

"C'mon, Kaoru, we gotta get Kenshin now!"

* * *

Outside the Shirobeko, Sae and Hiko Seijuro the Twelfth had bid their farewells before Hiko set off into the streets in the evening light.

There were many things about the city that made her deeply uneasy, like where all the money for all these built-up houses had come from, what on earth all the strange and otherworldly contraptions she'd seen were: the oddities in the windows, the lamp lights that stayed on forever. It had been years since she'd returned to Kyoto, but ever since she woke up in the rain after months of drought, head throbbing, the world felt alien to her. More labyrinthine, different to the point where it took her nearly a week to navigate Kyoto to find a simple teahouse.

After all the strangeness she had witnessed, however, the sound of footsteps shadowing hers and the feeling of being followed did not bring her unease like the city did. Since leaving the teahouse, not once did Hiko Seijuro the Twelfth feel compelled to look back. She simply went where the winding streets took her until it was dark and deserted enough to confront the one who'd been following her.

Hiko turned around leisurely. "Who's there?"

From a corner, a man showed himself.

"Why are you following me?"

"You brought a lot of attention to yourself at the teahouse, asking after the Yakuza," the man spat. "Yet, still so clueless."

He reached his arm inside his loose clothes, producing a short sword. It must have been strapped down to his side, hidden out of sight. At once, Hiko counted his nine-fingers. The man from the opposite table at the teahouse, who had obviously listened in. She felt utterly unsurprised.

"You must one of them."

"Yes," he said. Admitting he was Yakuza, sitting in the Shirobeko, staking out Sae's teahouse for whatever clandestine reason. Except he had happened upon Hiko instead. "I'll tell you what's going to happen, woman. You have two choices. You're going to tell me about the Shirobeko's benefactors. Whatever the teahouse owner told you. Or I kill you."

Hiko shook her head. "No. I will tell you what's going to happen. You _have_ no choice. I have no need to shake you for information, I've plenty. I am going to kill you to protect the teahouse owner's secret." Hiko parted her cloak, reaching for her sword. "I did give her my word."

The nine-fingered Yakuza laughed. "You're out of your mind."

Without warning, he sprang forward, short sword raised, charging to kill.

Hiko sunk into battou-jutsu stance.

* * *

**Notes.**

Most of the plot points in the 1848 flashback were extrapolated from Siriusfan13's excellent fic canon and I hope to expand on them here. I was so proud of Hiko 13's dad joke, ha! Ok, 'just Kaoru.' If it was Kenshin who Hiko ran into shopping, there's no way he'd have been as nice as to pick up his turnips. He'd kick them into his face and cause a nose bleed or something.

Hiko and Kenshin have a complicated relationship. They seem to barely stand one another, but they'd give up their lives in a heartbeat for the other. They want to talk, but they're estranged. Hiko said he and Kenshin had no master-disciple relationship anymore, Kenshin casually rejected being the 14th heir and casually told Hiko he was ending the Hiten Mitsurugi ryu line. Kenshin didn't feel like Hiko would care enough to come to his wedding. Hiko got the invite and didn't feel like he should come. Family is complicated, but Kaoru is standing in the middle like, '...can't you guys write some goddamned letters and call once in a while?'


	5. Chapter 5

**Note:** Oro...don't hate me too much, but I've decided to make two changes. First is the date. I regret changing it to 1883. It is now back to 1885. This one is no take-backsies! (I will explain this quickly after the fic, for fear of spoilers.) If you're reading this now, chapter 3 has already been amended with more dialogue.

* * *

**1885**

**Kyoto**

The night smelled vaguely like incense fumes, distant cooking, and firewood after it had been smothered. Even though the days were still warm, there had been an uncharacteristic chill come nightfall for the last few days, as well as the odd spurt of rain. People had been using their fireplaces and coal heaters to stave from it. They blended pleasantly with aromas of grilled fish and hearty meals from a line of warm, residential homes. For this reason, no one had discovered the body for hours on end, which had only emitted as much smell as it did because it had been hacked into quite a few pieces.

More surface area, more smell, Officer Kamoda thought nauseously.

Kamoda stood at the wall outside the back gardens of those residential homes, filled with children, families, muffled chatter, and wondered what kind of animal could have pulled apart a person this cleanly and quietly behind their backs. The blood had spread evenly on the path, filling up four large flagstone tiles so that the pool was contained in a nice, clean square shape. Other than, of course, the spatter upon the wall. Kamoda kept as much distance as he could, not wanting to step into the gore. After a moment of deliberating, even he had to concede the clean lines and quick cuts could only mean the attack had been perpetrated by a man with a sword.

Kamoda counted the parts. At first he thought the victim had lost a finger in the attack, and the perpetrator took it as a trophy. That was less of a crime of passion and more of a premeditated murder. But upon closer inspection, Kamoda was pretty sure the victim had only nine fingers to start with.

He was too rigid and routine to know what to do in this situation. Kamoda was used to robberies and tax dodging, the odd blackmail and ransom on his hands, but now his commissioner was secretly an ex-Shinsengumi who threatened all the officer's lives daily if they did not hunt down criminals to their last breath good enough or catalogue everything about a dead body before he could get there to criticise them. The old commissioner, who loved nothing more than to keep his office pristine and his uniform pressed, had always delegated these cursory tasks of running after convicts and bagging up evidence to others.

Commissioner Fujita, however, was out on the streets as often as Kamoda, a low-ranked officer. When he was around, people were too busy being afraid of him to be afraid of bodies. What's more, the Commissioner loved nothing more than to do everything by himself, trusting no one to do their jobs right. That might have been an insult, if not for the fact that his first action as Commissioner was a thorough lodging of inquiries to weed out the corrupt. A lot of officers were let go. If he were here, he'd bark at Kamoda to get out of the away while he stared at the crime scene in silence until he worked everything out, and then came out with a list of precise orders for what the rest of them should do…

But thinking of what his boss would do in this situation was not helping Kamoda get through the shock of seeing…what patently looked like a human casserole. One that had been left outside in the elements until it turned soggy and rancid. Crawling with maggots. Kamoda sucked in a breath of air, trying to quell his climbing heartbeat, trying to push down his terror. And then he immediately spluttered it out, retching and hacking. The smell of blood was oppressive. His fingers quivered. He felt queasy.

"Calm down," a deep voice, low and rasped, said.

Kamoda slowly turned around. A man in an overly large cloak stood a couple metres away, still as a statue. Kamoda reached for his rifle. "Who — who're you?! You—"

"I did not do this," the man stated, nodding towards the square puddle. "Look at my footprints. They end right here."

Kamoda looked between the cloaked man and the mangled body. "…It's the middle of the night. How'd you find…"

"I was travelling. Walking home. I got here the same way you did. Followed my nose."

Kamoda turned to him fully, rifle held up as he stood between the man and the body. "This area is now under police custody! You need to leave, Mister!"

The man lingered. His eyes roved around the ground past Kamoda, not affected, before he simply sighed out loud and dropped what looked like a shopping bag. He took the time to stoop and gently lay down several jugs of sake. Then he strolled forward. He seemed to grow bigger and more imposing the closer he got, until he was almost looming over Kamoda. Kamoda put down his rifle, knowing he was never going to use it, and knowing that the cloaked man had deduced this. He rummaged around in his pocket to produce a police whistle instead.

"Stop. Stop! Stay where you are! I'm signalling for backup—"

Kamoda lifted the whistle to his mouth. Before it got there, he registered a sharp pain burn through his fingers. The whistle went flying out of his hand, clacking against the wall. Kamoda gasped, frantically searching for it on the ground. Instead, he found that the projectile that was launched at his fingers was the wooden stopper of a sake jug.

Freezing, Kamoda looked at the large man. The large man looked at him. The large man took a swig of his drink.

"Here," he said gruffly, shoving it into Kamoda's hands to busy him. "It's quality."

Moving past the dazed Kamoda, the man walked right into the square pool of blood. Then he bunched his cloak up, and crouched to look at the body.

Kamoda took a sip of the drink, the strength of it shooting straight up his nose. Intense as it was, the man was right: it was quality. The young yet greying officer hadn't seen much of the dead himself, despite being trained as a shooter, and wasn't even allowed clearance into the room that held wound cleanings for victims at the station. His stomach felt heavy and uncomfortable.

Kamoda went towards the man. He eyed the dismemberment over the man's high collar with a faint sense of curiosity. What was he seeing that Kamoda could not?

"Nine-fingers — likely — likely to be Yakuza. The serial killings. It's the — it's the same one," he piped up over the man's shoulder. "It must be _the Hitokiri Battousai."_

All of a sudden, the man turned on him. His brows furrowed like he took personal offence.

"Don't cry wolf." He squinted, lips thinning into a straight line. "Not every random killer is Battousai just because it happened to happen in this damned, cursed city," he said, surly. "Besides, when did 'Hitokiri Battousai' become_ 'The_ Hitokiri Battousai?' A travesty. That _baka_ does not deserve the courtesy."

He huffed tiredly.

The cloaked man got up to move. Kamoda watched him wade around in the pool of blood, his face betraying no reaction as the contents beneath his feet sloshed around like a wet street after a monsoon. His black, cloth boots soaked up the blood. The experience, to him, had been no more off-putting than walking into a puddle.

Kamoda dropped to a knee at the man's side, finally unbalanced by the situation. The shaking seemed only to kick in now, a disturbed chill running up his spine after it. "The other officers…they talk about — battou-jutsu," he managed to say. "Calling cards…Tenchuu…"

The man looked at him, brows creased. He looked extremely irritable. He seemed to be irritated by the presence of the body more than anything, like it was such an inconvenience. A blight on his eyes. Ruining his good day. "Calling card? What calling card. Don't fret, your boogeyman did not come here tonight. This is nothing but humans killing other humans, the usual conundrum. A fact of life." He looked at Kamoda harshly, as if he were put off by his shaking.

"No matter how civilised and advanced society begs itself to be seen, it is powerless to stop vermin from crawling out of the woodwork to do this…It creates it's own infestation, diseasing the streets with scum like _this_, scum who _do_ such things as this." He snorted. "Incurable."

The man got hands-on with the body, actually rolling the torso to face the other way.

Kamoda immediately pushed past the cloaked man, throwing up. The man was so staunch he hadn't even registered the push as a push, Kamoda just bounded off him in time to decant. Over the sounds of Kamoda spilling his dinner all over the path, the man's eyes went alert for the first time.

"This was nine strikes to the body — a dashing attack…all nine vital spots hit exactly…"

There was a very specific kind of fragility in the air that shattered, overwhelming Kamoda's senses; of seething, pouring anger, so concentrated Kamoda could feel a physical reaction in his skin, the ends of his hair turning up in an instance, his entire body bracing involuntarily against something. He'd felt this before. The specific kind of something in the air when Commissioner Fujita ousted a corrupt cop by relieving them of the burden of having arms.

The cloaked man got up. "It's Kuzuryūsen." His voice reduced to a whisper. "It…_is_ Battousai."

"Kuzu-wha?" Kamoda pushed himself off the ground, getting up weakly. "You know…know the style?"

The man did not answer him. He began to mutter to himself in a quiet, subdued manner. "Kuzuryūsen? _Really? _On some backwater bastard like this? In the bleeding suburbs?" He grunted. "How many?"

Kamoda blinked, hard.

"I _said_ — how many of these murders have there been?!"

"Ahh — twenty!"

"Twenty people?!"

"—Nearly twenty attacks! Maybe — I don't have full clearance — maybe forty deaths?"

The cloaked man stared blankly at the wall.

Kamoda stepped about nervously, not sure where to look. Out of chance, he spotted his red whistle on the floor. He snatched it up. When he looked at the cloaked man again, the face that turned to him was full of anger.

"Call your reinforcements, Officer. Clean up. Do not bother clamouring to your death, going after the perpetrator. Tell whoever is charge they don't have what it takes to stamp out this disease." Then, inanely, he picked up his groceries. He picked up his jugs of sloshing sake, and, with more care than he used handling the dead, he tied the sake back to his belt. "Leave the killer for me to deal with."

Kamoda was not prepared to ask him to please stay for questioning. The man fixed his cloak and then left the scene much more gracefully than Kamoda could think, having squelched around in someone's innards.

The police whistle echoed over the silence he left behind.

Little did Kamoda or Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth know — elsewhere, another body had been discovered. Kamoda's whistle was not the only shrill call for aid that had come far too late, ringing cold and empty in the night.

The ephemeral 'Hitokiri Battousai' would have had to been in two places at once to have done what he will be accused of in the morning. Yet he will still be accused, and none would be the wiser.

* * *

**In the Aoiya**

The morning appeared. Soft light streamed through the paper windows and attractive painted panels of cherry blossoms and rolling mountains in the Aoiya Inn, which was roaring back to life as patrons filled its living areas and restaurant tables once again. It was a busy place, full of travellers, visitors, and foreigners of all sorts — a rather happy house where bands of musicians loved to play on the first floor for its guaranteed audience, airy hall, and well reception.

Many floors above the chatter and bustle of the inn was a closed off wing where the doors were made of hard wood and not thin balsa panels, with reinforced walls to keep conversations held within them secret. It was the part of the inn that, if paid detailed attention to, revealed undercurrents of the shinobi underworld of the Oniwabashu spies. Outside this wing, on every floor down to the last, were staff who were trained shinobi, _ninja_, who prided themselves on espionage, deception and waging covert warfare. This was once deemed dishonourable and beneath the honour of the samurai, but where the samurai were long gone, ninja houses like the Aoiya survived solely because of their existence being under the radar.

Now, sitting in rooms that technically did not exist, Kenshin spent the morning cluing in his family and friends about what had transpired at the crime scene he toured. Leaving out the gory details, he told everyone the conclusion he'd come to. Sano, Yahiko, Megumi and Kaoru stared at him, pin drop silence in the room as Kenshin told them all that had happened.

"…Well, we're coming with you," Yahiko offered, when Kenshin finished.

"There's no need for that," Kenshin said, beginning to sweat a bit. "This one can make the trip up the mountain myself, that I can."

"Kenshin," Sano started, "that's…that's really heavy, man. Your old man really was behind the killings?"

"It doesn't matter!" Megumi said over him, with surprising emotion. "Ken-san didn't do it. That's all we need. That's all they needed to hear. Who cares who did the killings or not! Not everybody who happens to be killed in this city is Ken-san's fault!"

Kenshin chuckled bitterly. "Megumi, Sano…this lowly one appreciates your concern, but I have to…" he trailed off, sighing. "…This one must find out why Shishou is doing this. If nothing else, I need to give Saito an answer."

Yahiko shook his head, looking calmly at Kenshin before his emotions boiled to the surface. He was older now, seventeen and taller than Kenshin, but his sense of justice and loyalty was ever strong. "Can't you see? This is all Saito's doing. It's all that guy's fault! Kenshin, can't you see he's just trying to make you do his dirty work for him? He's too scared to go to Hiko Seijuro himself—"

Before Yahiko could finish, Sano put a comforting hand on his shoulder. A calm, anchoring rip. While the others were more concerned with Kenshin being asked to fix other people's mistakes once more, Sano was more worried about the effect of the previous day's revelations on his friend. Hiko Seijuro had been his master, after all.

Sano shook his head at Yahiko. "…Yeah, you know I'd have been on your side yesterday. But this changes things. Hiko Seijuro changes things."

Kenshin sat back, regarding them all with a solemn look, and said nothing. Just thinking.

After a while, he spoke up softly. "The fact is, Saito did not need my confirmation whether it was the Mitsurugi ryu that saw the end of those men. He was already certain. This one thinks," Kenshin said, to himself more than anyone, "that he realised he needed an ally."

Those words hung in the air between everyone, strangely out of left field for exactly the reasons they all knew. Saito and Kenshin were like oil and water. If left without supervision, without the sobering eyes of civil society, they risked a grease fire tempered by cold water. Left to their own devices, the two tended to bring out the other's worse habits.

Yahiko, Megumi and Sano, who had argued exactly this in the market yesterday, exchanged knowing glances.

"No matter his intentions, he was the one that pulled you into his mess. If he knew it wasn't you then he didn't need to alert the authorities," Megumi began. She had the grace to give the benefit of the doubt yesterday, but that grace had run out; she looked as petty as ever with that poisonous scowl on her face.

"You're forgetting he basically_ is_ the authorities." Sano crossed his arms, equally irked when it came to the wolf.

Kenshin sighed. He tilted his head sheepishly to the side. "This one knows this is hard for you to hear, but I want to make things right. As the only other practitioner of Hiten Mitsurugi ryu, is it not my duty, to do something?"

Kenshin stopped abruptly. Something came over him. A soft, yawning chasm, an ever-growing terror. Was this what Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth had thought and felt, when Kenshin abandoned his training, turned his back on his master, left for war? Did Hiko Seijuro ever feel duty-bound to fix his mistake?

Kenshin, for a moment, wondered, _why didn't he?_

Kenshin got up. "This one is going up the mountain. I will speak to Shishou, that I must."

"Kenshin?"

Kaoru's voice drew all the attention in the room. Kenshin turned around, facing her fully to find a morose expression on her face.

"Kaoru-dono?"

Kaoru bit her lip, opened her mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. "Kenshin, I know you trust Saito for something as serious as this, but…" her voice trailed off. She swallowed, seeming inordinately nervous, tensed-up. She even looked away as Kenshin came up to her.

Taking her hands, Kenshin squeezed them tight. "We have our differences. This one may never call ourselves friend to one another, but, for those who have fought and toiled through all those years, there is an understanding. If he wanted to take my life, he would tell me openly. And I would have met him openly. Saito knows this. He will not take victory over me in a way such as this, that he would not."

Suddenly, Kaoru weaved her fingers into Kenshin's, squeezing him tight. She looked him in the eyes, tense. "Saito is wrong, or lying."

Kenshin blinked, taken aback. Kaoru removed her hands, walked away, and poured herself a cup of tea. She drank quickly. Megumi looked like she didn't know how to react to Kaoru's admission, but Yahiko and Sano's feverish marketplace thoughts were looking strangely vindicated.

"Kenshin," she started, "I met Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth in the market yesterday. His belt was adorned with sake jugs, express from Osaka. He'd been travelling. He told me himself that he arrived back that day, probably in the morning if not _right then_. Hiko-sama —Hiko couldn't have committed the murders because he hadn't been in Kyoto!"

Kenshin's eyes lit up, going wide and thoughtful.

"When we first heard that someone was using the Hiten Mitsurugi ryu, the first conclusion we all jumped to was it was an impersonator." Kaoru started gesturing wildly. "Even if Saito is the one who confirmed the use of your style, there are a lot of things that could go wrong — marks on a body are subjective. It had rained so much the crime scene couldn't possibly be accurate. And, hasn't it been years since Saito has seen Hiten Mitsurugi ryu? More than a decade since he's last seen a body downed by it? What if he just — just _remembered_ it wrong? What if he's just seeing what he _wants_ to see?" Kaoru paced to and fro in a small spot, collecting her thoughts as if there were too many grappling to be heard.

And to defend an innocent man.

"Please hear me, Kenshin. You never once considered the idea that Hiko could be behind this."

Kaoru spun around to address everyone.

"It makes sense — he just returned from Osaka yesterday, he isn't the type to do something so brash like this, no matter how he uses his sword. Kenshin, if you don't think Saito is wrong, Saito must be lying about something."

For a moment, Kenshin believed every word she said. It was as if a great wave of relief had come over him, his eyes going bright with relief, lips turning up, muscles relaxing mercifully, before it was overshadowed with a great wave of doubt. His want to believe in her was spread all over his face, but he could not discount the truth his own eyes had witnessed. She, in her reverie, had not realised she hadn't just questioned Saito's intuition, but Kenshin's also. Kenshin loved her. He loved Kaoru for how hard she fought for him, how hard she fought to defend his honour, acquit him from sad, horrible thoughts when he could not keep them at bay. Kenshin did not deserve any of this, but Kaoru gave it freely. Kenshin loved her, but he could not tell her right now that people — people like he and Saito — did not just _forget_ things like this. Kenshin remembered.

The faces of his victims came like moths to a light. His mind was sharp like that, conveniently so. He used to think about people, lying dead in their own blood, while he wiped down his sword serenely, a job well done weeks or even months ago. Years ago. A decade ago. When he first became a wanderer, he couldn't stay in one place because the worst parts of the revolution kept playing back in his head like a twisted lullaby…the only reprieve was to keep moving. Keep running. Sleep little. Think little.

There were some things one couldn't forget, even if they so wanted to. Like how one's sword style looked in someone else's corpse.

Kenshin shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Kaoru-dono, that I truly am." He moved to sit down, placing the sakabatou down at his side. "This one has seen the evidence with his own eyes. It does not lie."

Kaoru's pursed her lips, hurt and frustrated. "I'm vouching for him. It's not Hiko Seijuro."

"I don't know, Kaoru." Their heads turned to see Megumi, looking pensive in her seat. Her voice had come out uncharacteristically small. "…We don't know Hiko Seijuro well."

"I'm sorry." Kenshin looked up sadly. "Kaoru-dono, it is as it is. There are only two practitioners of Mitsurugi ryu on this earth. If it was not this one who committed the murders, there can only be one answer—"

Before Kenshin could finish, the sliding door began to shudder and jiggle.

It shuddered again and again, with sudden knocks as if being kicked, prodded, under attack. Before anyone could answer, it was slid open by Omime, the tallest of the three Oniwabanshu women with long, sweeping hair. From between her legs, a young child about four years old dashed into the room, making a beeline to Kaoru. "Mama!"

* * *

"Kenji, baby! You're awake?!" Kaoru braced for impact, making exaggerated motions of being unbalanced before falling back on cue when Kenji pressed into her arms. "Isn't it a little too early for you to be up?"

Kenji, wild hair all over the place, just laughed as Kaoru lifted him off her with a big, _"Oof!"_ Then she touched his nose to hers and cooed, "_Who's an early riser? Who's a busy bee?!" _

"Kenji?!" Kenshin dropped to the floor, also cooing after the boy, "What is that on your head? _Oro? Is that a bird's nest, Kenji? Is that bed-hair?_ _Come, come, let Papa fix it up!" _

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Omime laughed, her hair waving from side to side behind her. "When little Kenji woke up in an unfamiliar place and couldn't see his parents, the little tyke freaked! So I brought him over — Misao-sama would have killed me if I made him cry!"

"Thank you, Omime." Megumi got up to thank her since the parents were obviously busy. "And thank you so much for looking after him yesterday. We really appreciate it."

"Oh please," Omime said, waving her hands as if waving away the gratitude, "it was barely a request. I'm _amazing _with kids."

Sano stared at Kenji with a face of slight concern. "…That kid slept almost the entire train ride from Tokyo to Kyoto to the Aoiya and only gets up now. He was dead for like fourteen hours. What do you mean he's up early? Megumi, you're a doctor. What's wrong with him?"

"He has a case of _being-three-years-old,_ Sano," Megumi said flatly. "The same disease you have, apparently."

As Sano and Megumi engaged in a stare-off, Kaoru conversed with Omime while bouncing Kenji in her lap. "He's about to turn four in a few days. We were going to celebrate at the Akabeko back home in Tokyo. Auntie Megumi had taken time off her practice. Yahiko nii-chan paused his sword training." She continued to bounce Kenji to his delight. "Uncle Sanosuke even stayed at the dojo all day, refusing to get into _any_ fights," Kaoru said, like that was the most impressive feat out of all of them.

"Please don't call me Uncle." Sano broke eye contact with Megumi. "It makes me sound old."

"Uncle Sano!" Kenji began to chorus. "Uncle Sano!"

Sano dropped his head defeatedly while Kenji chanted. Kaoru, Megumi and Omime laughed at his expense. It took for Sano to make comically threatening gestures towards Kenji for the chanting to stop — and be replaced with giggling.

"We were all back together," Kaoru went on, "planning to celebrate Kenji's fourth birthday in a few days. But that was when we got the summons from the Kyoto police."

"A letter from an acquaintance," Kenshin added. His troubled expression, heavy and shadowed, seem to wipe off his face immediately when Kenji separated from Kaoru to run over to him instead.

"Oro?!" Kenshin gesticulated just as wildly as Kaoru had done as he let Kenji bowl him over. Kenji climbed all over him, reaching for his hair. He pulled on it as soon as he could grab hold of it, fistfuls of his favourite toy. _"Ouch! Orororo, Kenji, that grows out of my head, that it does…you always bully me…_Thank you for looking after him, Omime-dono. He is full of energy."

"Full of energy, Pa!" Kenji repeated, pulling on his hair.

"Yes, yes, he is!" Omime chuckled. "Are you going to bring him out with you today, or should we go out and play with shuriken with Grandaddy Okina later," Omime asked, partly to the parents, partly to Kenji.

_"No!" _both Kaoru and Kenshin chorused together.

Omime put her hands up in embarrassment. "Oh no, I didn't mean real shuriken! I swear I meant origami ones!"

"No, no, that's not it, Omime-dono," Kenshin started. Kenji had crawled over him and was now eyeing the sakabato with a beady eye.

As if sensing the parents being overwhelmed between talking seriously, cooing at their three-going-on-four year old, and trying to brush the boy's hair with their fingers, Yahiko stepped in.

"Heeeey! Kenji, come here. You don't want Papa to do your hair, look at his." Yahiko dangled a sash in his hands. The gesture was enough to send Kenji scuttling over the low tea table to jump into Yahiko's arms. Megumi crossed the room to hand Yahiko a comb. "Let Big Bro Yahiko fix it, yeah?"

"Yeah! Yahiko!" Kenji did his best to stay still as Yahiko, well-practiced now, brushed the kid's hair. It was darker than Kenshin's, more brown than red, and his eyes unmistakably his mother's. Yet his likeness to Kenshin was almost startling. He looked so much like him. Too much like him.

"Misao must not have told you." Kaoru faced Omime, a little dishevelled. "…We're not taking Kenji anywhere in Kyoto. With these allegations about, we have to think about his safety. I'm embarrassed to say, I've been used against Kenshin before. But I'd have my wooden bokken sword with me. But Kenji…" She swallowed. "Kenji's safety is all that matters."

Omime's mouth propped open, shocked by her words. But then she reigned herself in, understanding.

Kenshin rose. "Only Okina-san, Misao-dono, yourself and a few others in the Aoiya know about our son." His eyes darted to Megumi, Sano and Yahiko. "As Kaoru-dono wished, I did not let Saito know about him."

Kaoru, lips pursing, shrugged. She looked a little guilty, but not enough to regret it. "I didn't let Hiko Seijuro know about him either."

Kenshin nodded. "So, Kenji won't be known to the police, nor anyone outside the Aoiya. Kenji must be kept safe, so it's best for now that no one in Kyoto knows he is my son…or that I have a son at all."

For as they all knew, there was a second perpetrator — or perpetrators — leaving the calling cards. And they had no idea who they were.

Omime nodded vehemently. "I understand. I'll make sure Kenji stays right where he is, then." She swiped a hand to her brow. "Luckily you told me now, before I thought I could take the little tyke on a walk for dango, or something."

"Thanks, Omime," Kaoru said again.

"Thank you, Omime-dono," Kenshin bowed.

Another knock at the door sounded. Omime knocked back, tilting her head as she chastised them, "Go away, not now. Some people are trying to spend some quality time with their boy!"

But the door slid open anyway. Omime had been leaning on the door; she fell backwards into another Oniwaban member's arms. It was Shirojo, with his signature bandana tied over his forehead, who caught her on pure reflex. Then he looked up haphazardly to the guests. "I'm sorry, Himura-san, Himura-san," he said to both Kaoru and Kenshin respectively, "But it's the Commissioner."

"Saito?" Sano stood up, looking confused. "Here? What's he doing?"

"He's demanding an audience with Himura-san…er, Kenshin-san," Shirojo said.

"But they just spoke yesterday."

"He is, er. He is…threatening to come in to find you."

"Seriously, Shiro?" Omime straightened up, beginning to tie up her hair as if squaring up for a fight. "How dare he. He knows who we are — Okina-sama and Misao-sama won't just let him _break into_ the Aoiya. How dare he threaten to come in?!"

"Please," Kenshin said, trying to diffuse the situation, "Please, don't think ill of him. He is always threatening."

Kaoru sighed at that while Sano rolled his eyes. Typical of Saito, they supposed.

"If you will, I would like to invite him in."

At that, Yahiko spoke up in a mismatched, playful voice. "Ohhhh, would you look at that, Kenji, I think we should go hang out in the other room, kay?" Yahiko said on cue. "Who wants to be here with these stuffy old adults, with their ninjas and their revolutionaries and their Shinsengumi…ew." Without looking or speaking to the others, Yahiko made his point. A point to be careful not to stir a keg that could only blow. To be careful letting a wolf into their den. He slowly got up, causing Kenji to roll out of his lap with glee.

"Katana!" Kenji cried, bounding after him. "I wanna play with katana, Yahiko nii-chan!"

"Now? Nooo, not now. Where do you think this is? Not everyone's house is a dojo."

"But you promised! You promised, Yahiko nii-chan!"

"No I didn't."

"Yea you did!"

"No, I didn't."

"You! _Did!"_

"When?"

"Nii-chan said," Kenji mumbled in his toddler voice, "—if Kenji can go to sleep on the train, then you let me play with your katana!"

"Yeah," Sano crossed his arms from across the room. "He did, didn't he, Kenji-chan?"

Yahiko spun on him, giving him an annoyed look. _"Thanks, _Uncle Sano."

Unaffected, Sano scooped up Yahiko's wooden sword and threw it to him. Yahiko caught it with ease. The smooth catch impressed Kenji into a rare instance of silence. His eyes, dark like Kaoru's, sparkled.

"Okay, let's go play with my katana. I hear Omime onee-chan had paper shurikens too."

"Oh yeah! I'll go make some, yeah?!"

At that, Omime and Yahiko ferreted Kenji away. Meanwhile, Shirojo went back down to receive Saito.

"Weird, what would Saito want now?" Sano pondered aloud.

* * *

A cold, hard knock sounded upon the door, and Saito let himself in.

Behind him, another set of footsteps trailed after him. Another officer. But Saito had already turned around and begun shutting the door in their face. _"Guard, Kamoda." _

Saito turned on them.

"…Quite nice quarters up here," he commented, eyes roaming around the room. "I would never have known."

For a moment, Kenshin thought he looked more like a cop than he did a wolf, a respected officer with a warrant. Searching for illegal goods that, for all his intensity, might appear in the room out of thin air, ripe for arrest. But he was ever the predator scanning for prey all the same. Without so much as a greeting or hello, Saito strutted to the window and leaned casually out, seeing how far up they were. He acted as if he were savouring a novel experience, being allowed inside the Aoiya on invitation.

"Did you enjoy your stay last night, Battousai?" He leaned out, rather like a child on the rails. A cat on a high surface.

There was something about his voice that told Kenshin he was distinctly not being kind to him — not that Kenshin expected from Saito a normal human response. Saito stalked around the room, boots clonking about. He hadn't bothered to take his shoes off. Nor the disingenuous smile he had on his face.

But the smile, no matter how forceful it was, could not hide the dark, tired bags beneath Saito's eyes. He had the lymphatic complexion of someone who hadn't slept in days, where it was starting to show in quite spectacular ways. It was clear he hadn't shut his eyes for a blink in the hours they'd last seen each other.

"Yes. It was very comfortable. The Aoiya is too kind to us."

"Hm. They quite are, aren't they?"

"They are treasured friends."

"Conspirators happy to house a wanted man. Nice of them." His eyes flickered to the far side. "…And this room. So spacious."

"Enough for the entire Kamiya dojo household."

"How about your ego?"

Kenshin finally narrowed his eyes. "Good of you to ask. This lowly one would be happy to advise on how to house your own."

Saito nodded sarcastically. He seemed almost pleased Kenshin could still produce such a cutting remark.

"And your no-kill oath. How is that holding up?" He stared at some of the room dividers, tasteful furnishings, admiring the embroidery. "Does it include deaths caused by obstruction of justice, pray tell? Does it include deaths caused by proximate means? Wilful blindness? Pure idiocy? I should ask, see if it's all inclusive, or if _conditions_ apply."

"That's enough." Sano got up, fuming.

"What are you trying to say?" Megumi squinted, unable to listen to the unkind tone anymore.

But Saito ignored them. "Did you sleep well, last night?"

"Supremely," Kenshin said acerbically.

This was about to go on for a few minutes more when Kaoru came between them. Her eyes held Saito's crossly before she tipped her head up, confronting him overtly. She looked to him seriously. Then she entered the game. "What is it, Commissioner? Did something urgent come up? What can we help you with?"

She dipped her head. "Have you eaten?"

"Ah," Saito tilted his head towards her. His long, spider-like bangs that couldn't be gelled down if his life depended on it, quivered in front of his meekly closed eyes. "Kamiya girl. Nice to make your acquaintance again. Nothing is wrong. I'm not hungry. I just need to talk to Battousai."

Kaoru flared at that word.

Kenshin went up to him, his eyes open and quizzical. They stared at each other, but Saito just smiled incessantly, refusing to drop whatever act he was trying to put up. He regarded Kenshin completely at arms-length.

Kenshin gestured to the table. "Fine. Please sit, Saito. This one will make us some tea while we talk."

Moments later, Kenshin, Megumi, Sano and Kaoru were sat around the table with their guest, Saito, sipping tea.

"What is so urgent you had to come in person so soon?" Kenshin asked. He leaned forward, pouring him tea.

Saito slid a hand into his uniform — and Sano actually retaliated by beating a fist on the table in warning, Kaoru tensed up, holding her empty teacup like a rock. But Saito just took out a small slip of paper, a harmless motion, prompting them to both to look slapped.

"What's that?" Kaoru asked.

Saito's lip twitched. "You didn't tell your wife, Battousai?"

"I did. Kaoru-dono has never seen it before." Kenshin turned to his wife and friends, explaining to them. "This is a calling card. The replica calling cards that emulate what the Ishin Shishi employed in the aftermath of an assassination."

"Tenchuu: Heaven's Justice," Megumi read. "By the hand of Himura Battousai." She turned the paper over, revealing the strange symbol on the back. "What is this?"

"I don't know. What is that, Battousai?"

Kenshin frowned. He finally matched the hostility toiling off Saito like he'd just smoked a twelve-pack cigarette box right before coming in, and looked at Saito with accusing eyes. His ki was so hateful that even Sano and Kaoru, people who were not skilled at reading ki, had felt it and reacted involuntarily. Only Megumi, who could not sense any ki at all, seemed fairly oblivious to the tense atmosphere.

"This one has already told you," Kenshin said politely. "This one does not know the source of this symbol." He took another look at it, smoothing out the paper. Two fans in symmetry, or two shells opened up… triangular blotches. "It means nothing to me."

Saito nodded patiently.

He looked to Kaoru and the others. "…Give us some privacy. I want to talk to Battousai alone."

Nobody moved. The way he spoke was like he was addressing another commander, telling the rest of their unit to buzz off while the superiors talked business.

Saito turned up a brow when no one bothered to move. _"Please?" _he said, teeth bared.

Kenshin turned, about to cave and ask everyone to please leave when Kaoru dropped her cup onto the table with rude force. She looked Saito squarely in the eyes. "Whatever you will say to Kenshin, you can say to all of us," she said flatly.

Saito just looked at her, lips a thin, taut line. Something changed, but Kenshin could only name it as a collection of small gestures, small tells — less tension in his jaws, less ki-induced quivering in his bangs, an imperceptible relaxation. Letting go. Acquiescing. These meant nothing, changed nothing, but the air between them went suddenly lax. Saito wasn't angry anymore. That bare, hungry look, with every bit of him arched for battle — subdued military poise, attack dog circling — seemed to just drift out of him. Like smoke dispersing, or pride being swallowed.

Calmly, he looked up.

"I was not born Saito Hajime."

Kaoru's eyes widened. Megumi and Sano shared a confused look. Kenshin just sat across from Saito, tea still in his hands. Without the barest ripple.

"When I was eighteen, I killed a _hatamoto._ An upper vassal samurai in the direct service of the Tokugawa Shogunate. This was in Edo. Tokyo, as you know now," Saito said. "It was a sparring match gone wrong. I do not pretend it was a faultless affair. I took responsibility. I was stripped of my title, my birthright…And I was cast out of my small family clan."

Saito said it with the air of someone having tea and brunch with long time friends, talking casual banter, a funny quip. "It was the Yamaguchi Clan. Soon after, I was afforded a second chance. Another chance to hold a sword again. Another chance to be a samurai. I would use the very skills that had earned me my banishment for a renewed purpose. This time, in the service of the Shinsengumi." Saito dragged his hands across the table, then turned them up, gesturing openly. "I was originally Yamaguchi Hajime."

An uncomfortable silence followed.

Kaoru seemed to sink back into her seat, her eyes drifting downwards to her withdrawn fingers. Saito's words seemed to sink into her too, awkward in its honestly. She looked compelled to look away for fear of trespassing in something private, in a confession so unbelievably soft. Megumi and Sano also startled. They both looked nervous, as if they weren't really sure they should be here at all, or be allowed to listen to this. Kenshin, however, watched on as if he really were at brunch with a long-time friend, and nodded politely at the interesting story he'd shared. He swirled his tea in his cup.

"Why are you telling this lowly one?"

Saito sat back. He chose this moment to sip his tea, enjoying the aroma. "So now we're even. So you don't feel the need to blush and shy like an adolescent girl to disclose to me all about your_ lowly_ self. Let's have a heart-to-heart," Saito said venomously. He picked up the calling card in the middle of the table, flipped it to the symbol on the back, and slapped it down in front of Kenshin with an air of finality.

"What — is this symbol — to you?"

Kenshin did not even look at it. "I do not know—"

Saito exploded.

He leapt up from his haunches, kicking the entire table vertical. Cups rolled onto the floor and shattered, hot tea ran down the edges. Megumi cried out and Sano pushed her out of the way, positioning his body to protect as much of her as he could.

Saito unsheathed his sword and charged his Gatotsu straight through the upturned, vertical table. An engineered blind spot. Then he aimed at Kenshin on the other side.

* * *

**Notes.**

Kenji exists! Hooray!

The main reason I changed the 'present' date is that I don't want Kaoru to have had her child so young. That's it! She's 25 here with a three-almost-four year old child (which is still very young).

The info Saito shared about himself is what I could glean from various sites about the historical figure he was based on. Historical Saito did change his name from Yamaguchi to Saito, though there is no real evidence that Yamaguchi was a 'clan' (I embellished that for this story). Saito's father was a gokenin, a low-ranked samurai. After he killed a high-ranked _hatamoto_ samurai at 18 he either had to flee Edo, or was forced to leave. I tired to be accurate, but a lot of the sites about Saito's early life are fan sites for various manga/anime characters based on him. Some claimed he challenged the hatamoto for a duel and killed him. But others (including Wikipedia) suggest it was a sparring accident. This was all I had to go on with english language sites.

Anyhow, I like Saito as a character as you can probably tell. He would never be this emotional imo, but I'd like to blame it on the lack of sleep and utterly unhealthy work schedule and last night's murders. I really don't think RK Saito is supposed to have a backstory. He's just there. Ever the wolf. Born 39 years old. Immortal in his stasis.

But fic is supposed to be indulgent. So enjoy :)

Hiko 12 used kuzuryusen on that one guy because she CAN.

\- an-earl


	6. Chapter 6

A quick refresher for Japanese terms:

A _yukata_ is a casual, summery kimono-like garment. A _wakizashi_ is a short sword, the second in a set worn by samurai in feudal/Edo period. A _bokken_ is a wooden training sword. _Onsen_ is a bathhouse. _Kunai_ is a diamond shaped knife used by ninja. _Shuriken_ is a throwing star.

* * *

**In the Aoiya**

Light slanted on the floorboards of the Aoiya, obscured and uncovered over and over by the steady coming of guests into the main hall. The music of shamisen strings floated in the air, two women in bright floral kimono were strumming a romantic Edo ballad to the laughter and chatter of guests. There were small children running around, giggling happily with food smeared on their faces, chased by their caregivers in relaxed yukatas. This did not look like a place where shadowy street figures fought back the likes of organised vagabonds. This did not look like a place where muscled folk guards intimidated muscled gang intimidators from extorting other people's teahouses.

The Aoiya Inn, Hiko Seijuro thought, looked rather unskeevy for a front that held a place in Kyoto's underworld.

Hiko Seijuro the Twelfth stood at the entrance, taking in the peaceful scene and mulling over Sae's words to her in her head. Find who controls the underworld, who has influence in the streets, and she'll find where missing children go. That had been her logic. After weeks wandering the rural areas, the city was all she had left. But was this really a place that could help her find Miki? Was this really logic that would pan out?

Hiko lingered in the doorway too long. An employee who had been engaged with other guests became suddenly free to swerve in her direction with a large, gaping smile on her face. "Hello, Madam!"

She, like the other employees, was dressed surprisingly casual in a stripped blue yukata. She bowed shortly, her long rope of a braid whipping so hard though the air Hiko had to dodge it as she came up again.

"Welcome to the Aoiya! Are you here for the restaurant or for a stay?"

"…A stay."

"Right! We do breakfasts, lunches and dinner — today we have Nana and Tachibana on the shamisen — and if you stay for a week we have discounts for the onsen baths down the street! How great, right?! And, and, and — we have a storyteller coming in tonight for the children! " the young lady said, with barely a pause for breath. "The Tale of Momotaro, the Tale of the Bamboo cutter, all that good, good stuff! What's your favourite story?"

"…Momotaro is fine."

"Isn't it? Good choice, I adore it. Please follow me! How many are with you?"

"…Just myself."

"Ah, of course! Any requests? Sunny room? Towels? The onsen down the street is _very_ good. "

"…I'm fine."

The employee continued to go on about the excellent weather they were finally having. She led Hiko into the estate away from the bustling main guest hall where the strums of the shamisen slowly bled into the distance. Going along a long stretch of corridor, the slanted light faded suddenly from the floorboards as a cover of clouds concealed the sun outside. Hiko stopped. The employee had travelled almost to the end of the corridor until she noticed Hiko had stopped following. "—and we have an origami hour with Omime — that one's not just for kids! —Is there something wrong?"

"No, er, Miss…"

"Just Misao," she beamed and Hiko felt a little bad to have to start questioning her now, "Makimachi Misao!"

"Ah, Miss Misao. Actually, I came here to find someone. It's quite important to me."

Misao nodded agreeably. "Certainly, who are you looking for?"

"The manager of this place," Hiko replied surely. "Kashiwazaki-san."

"Him? That old gramps doesn't run the place anymore, he leaves all the hard work to me! Like, just last week he forgot to order in more rice. Can you _believe?!_ A restaurant! And inn! Out of _rice?!_ I was gone for a few days tops, and he was about to let all our patrons starve! I bet if it were up to him, all—"

"—I beg your pardon, Misao," Hiko added quickly before she could take off again, "but I'm not truly here to see Kashiwazaki-san per se."

"—Oh?"

"I'm looking for one called Okina."

"Ah! Okina."

Misao seemed to freeze on the spot, mid-thought. Then she relaxed just as suddenly, losing the abrupt tension in her shoulders as she nodded her answer. Though she was smiling, the air of her had changed. She was on edge now. Hiko was on edge as well — there would be no reason for that reaction unless there was someone here to be uncovered.

Misao seemed to look past her shoulder before answering. "And what business do you have with Kashiwazaki-san?"

"Well, that's between Okina and I," Hiko said in a level voice. "I just need to speak to him." She smiled, trying to be sincere, but Hiko could only see Misao draw further and further away. To temper her thoughts, Hiko lied. "He and I are friends."

"Friends?" Misao looked Hiko up-down. Then her great smile returned to her face. "Friends, I see! Alright, I'll sit you down in a room and you can wait there while I get him for you, yeah?"

"If you'll please."

Misao led her straight past the corridor up the stairs, far away from where she'd originally planned to room her. Hiko went along, not really phased by the new development.

"I've some urgent matters to share with Okina, you understand," Hiko went on, wanting to put her at ease. "Just some personal matters. As well as a request. It would be ideal to see him as soon as possible."

"Yes," Misao said, guiding Hiko to a room. But Misao also stepped inside, closed the sliding door behind them, and then walked casually to the closet. She snapped the closet open.

Inside was a selection of strings, a system of bells that ran throughout the inn; Misao strongly tugged on one. Though no sound could be carried to Hiko's ears, Misao had at once alerted all the other sound-sensitive employees in the upper levels.

"About that, there's no way you're _friends_ with Okina, or I'd never heard the end of it!"

With that, a patter of footsteps sounded down the corridor. Before long half a dozen employees burst into the room behind Misao. Her face set like slate, her strongly pushed down ki rose as easy as a released breath. Between one moment and the next, she was ready for battle, surrounded by lackeys. All of them were armed. Suddenly this _was_ a place where shadowy street figures fought back organised crime, a place where muscled folk guards intimidated their marks to the click of Misao's fingers.

"Who are you and what do you want with Gramps?!" Misao said, raising her voice.

Hiko just stood there in the centre, having not moved an inch since the room filled up with enemies. "Um. Well. My intensions were true. I have urgent matters to speak of with Okina."

"What kind of urgent matters?" one of the men called beside Misao, his short hair closely cut. He reached into his clothes, producing a large, hooked kunai blade. Hiko's stomach plummeted. These were not any old thugs. These were _ninja._

"The kind where I will raze this inn to the ground if I don't see who I came here to see," Hiko snapped.

"That's it! — Oniwabanshu, take her down before Grandpa gets back!"

The large man with the hooked blade came at her first. She'd half expected him to be bumbling and clumsy like most of the Yakuza, but he was fast and technical. Hiko evaded his strikes before jabbing the fingers around the hilt of the blade as it came down on her, loosening his hold it as she moved. The man hesitated, eyes shut reflexively in pain, giving her a chance to use Ryūkansen.

This time, she used it as a counterattack, sidestepping her opponent and moving past them to the other two coming at her. The air swivelled in the room. She didn't pull her sword. There were children in this place, families. Instead, she pulled her wakizashi, using the hard hilt of it to hit the back of the man's head, then aimed at the other two. All of this happened at incredible speed, half of them down in mere seconds. Hiko kicked away their weapons as they slumped over unconscious.

_"No!"_ One of the others flew to the downed men, checking him over. The rest of them charged at once.

A man with a bandana over his forehead came at Hiko with only his fists, outfitted with gauntlets. Hiko crouched, splitting her coat to deliver a punch. The cloak was useful even in a fist fight as it concealed attacks until the last moment. She caught the man on the shoulder, moved when he continued to throw the same attack, and then used the principle footwork of the Ryūshōshen to strike him under the chin.

_"Shirojo! No!" _The woman with long hair unsheathed an oversized shuriken. She circled her.

Hiko gritted her teeth, eyes flickering to the remaining ninja, making quick decisions. She needed to see Okina, meaning she needed goodwill and killing these ninja were not an option. Crouching, she readied herself before propelling off at full speed.

"Wh— where is she?"

"Careful! She's using high speed!"

Hiko appeared behind long-hair, cracking her at the side of her neck and then pulling her to slam into the wall. Her oversized shuriken sailed through the air wildly, cutting down a painted room divider. A glint of light caught Hiko's eye and she whipped back just enough to feel the wind of a small shuriken rocket past her face.

Hiko spun around, facing Misao. "Leave Omime alone," she seethed and, inanely, Hiko turned back to glimpse what kind of ninja held origami hour every other weekday.

Deadly quiet now, Misao peeled off her yukata, revealing a navy, battle-ready uniform. Hiko's eyes narrowed. Though she was small, a bit short, Misao had the lean build of those who were accustomed to physical exertion, with her legs being almost entirely made up of hard, packed muscle.

"A ninja base," Hiko remarked. "And in the heart of the city, too." She huffed. "How curious."

"Is that so surprising? You still carry a wakizashi like a samurai!" Misao cried.

"_Like _a samurai?"

Misao charged at her, shuriken clasped snugly between each of her knuckles. She let go of them, sending a wave all aimed at Hiko. Another flash of light glared in the room, a cobalt gleam, and the the shuriken were directed towards the floor, pinned into the hardwood. Misao seemed to blink, confused. Hiko's hand was clasped over her sword hilt as if she had never drawn it. She could see Misao's eyes move again and again, toiling in thought. They had barely crossed weapons, but Misao's breath was already laboured, heavily so, and one arm was wrapped defensively over her left side.

When she released her side, it came away wet. Hiko's brow creased in understanding. Misao was injured. In her agitation, an old would had reopened.

"…Who are you? I've never seen anyone else move as fast as…" Misao trailed off, then recalibrated with new fistfuls of shuriken. "Forget it. I'm not letting you get to Gramps."

Another moment passed, where the door slid open to funnel in another wave of uniformed ninja. "Misao-sama!" another ninja girl cried.

"Okashira, we're here!" another man cried.

"Okashira, are you alright?"

"This is the target, Okashira?"

_"Okashira?"_ Hiko echoed.

They all turned on Hiko with their weapons while it was still dawning on Hiko that Misao, the one charging at her with shuriken, was the leader of this ninja base. She had limited choices. Fight and kill the already injured Okashira and have all avenues of help be withheld from her by this Okina figure. Or cause an even larger disturbance, which would startle the families and children on the ground floor. Or let herself be restrained, where the ninja will likely kill her — after all, Misao had treated her as an ineffable enemy the moment Hiko had uttered 'Okina.'

She made her decision. Hiko the Twelfth sucked in air, pushed her latest attacker into another, moved to the side, and then jumped out the three storey window before a last hail of shuriken could pin themselves to the walls.

* * *

**Upstairs**

A few floors above in the connected guest rooms, Saito's Gatotsu wedged into the table, pointed straight through, and aimed with pinpoint accuracy at Kenshin's head.

Though Kenshin was blinded by the table, the only way Saito could attack was predictable. Kenshin had moved immediately, unsheathing his sakabatou halfway with the speed of battou-jutsu. The flat side of the sakabatou caught the tip of Saito's sword, shielding him from the attack. They broke apart, both bounding back to gain distance — Saito kicked the table off his sword — the table tumbled through the air, about to crash into Kenshin — before it was sliced clean apart into two pieces. One half flew to one side, cracking the wall, the other crashed straight through the window panels, plummeting to the garden outside.

Kenshin rose from his crouch. In his right hand, the sharp, back-edge of his sakabatou gleamed silver. The back-edge had never cut a person in its tenure, and had never been used recklessly, it was as sharp as the day it was made and _kept_ that way.

Then Kenshin, upon a short breath, turned it back to the front — to the blunt edge.

It was a show of Kenshin's conviction; how sure he was of who he is, how true he was to himself, unwavering, incorruptible — but this, just like in the morgue, inflamed Saito.

Sano jumped to his feet, hands curled into fists, but as he ran up behind Saito Kenshin kicked a piece of teapot at him. The porcelain bounced off Sano's chest, stopping him in his motion. "No Sanosuke. Please let this one."

Sano looked between them nervously. "...Kenshin..." It looked as if he wanted to rebut. But something came over him, making him hesitant. Perhaps the familiarity of this scene: if both Saito and Kenshin wanted to fight, no one could stop them. Kenshin apologised to Sano mentally.

Years ago they were in this exact same situation: he and Saito enclosed in a room, themselves, the ghosts of themselves, and their swords scuffling about like beasts butting heads, locked in trance. Years ago, Kenshin was weaker in soul, not as crystal clear in the mind, not at peace — with one wrong step he'd fallen back into the past amidst the quagmire of Bakumatsu, where Saito's uniform was zig-zagged blue, his hair long in that familiar ponytail, teeth bared. For a moment, Kenshin was fourteen and battle-hardened. He was Battousai, in the flesh. Roused by Saito from beyond the grave. Possessed and malevolent.

But that was not now.

Kenshin was not cornered, unbalanced, unhinged. He was in the Aoiya, surrounded by horrified friends, family. He had let Saito in on goodwill, but now he was going to take it back. Saito grunted, charging to employ an upward slash. Kenshin evaded. Kenshin held the sakabatou at the ready, fending off another one of Saito's attacks, parrying strikes with enough strength in them to break bones, jumping from underhanded slashes to his legs. He spun to parry another hit, and though he was breathing fast his eyes locked onto Saito's with a clear look.

Kenshin was no longer Battousai and there was no effort in having to cage that beast — there was nothing there, no well to draw from. Any hope of rousing that phantom was futile. If Saito thought this could do anything to bring back the past, he was a fool and an idiot.

But all thought of Battousai escaped his mind when Saito's sword met Kenshin's again and he clamped down on him — putting them in a battle of endurance Saito knew he would always have the upper hand in, what with his height and weight. Pushing the sharp back edge of the sakabatou towards Kenshin's face, Saito spat, "You never told me you hailed from a _clan."_

"…Oro?"

Kenshin's arms began to sour. He broke first, jerking dangerously forward and kneeing Saito in the solar plexus before breaking. The hit stunned Saito just enough for him to get away — but Saito turned in his pain, right fist hooking Kenshin in the shoulder.

Kenshin winced, briefly touching down to the floor. His shoulder burned, and he knelt there to pass the throb. "A clan? _What_ are you talking about?"

Saito held his own abdomen, face twisted like he was silently screaming, but all that came out of him was that same condescending, insufferably casual voice, "And not just any so-called, grandstanding clan." Saito went on as if he hadn't heard Kenshin at all. "A powerful one. A glorious one. One so infamous, everyone was hunted to death like _dogs."_

His eyes, bright from adrenaline, flickered up to Kenshin. "Except you, apparently."

Saito recovered first, straightening up and pointing his sword at Kenshin with a manic look. "Imagine the labour I could have saved, the blood I could have kept in my body, if the Hanadas had actually finished the job and murdered every last one of your name. It would have saved a good quantity of Third Unit men. It certainly would have saved on this entire sequence of serial killings. It would have saved a hell of a lot on _tabloid printer ink." _

This time, Kenshin attacked first. He shot forward, disappearing, causing the ugly, mocking smile on Saito's face to wipe away at almost comical speed — and for Saito to raise his sword to defend against an airborne attack he was too disordered to see. Even if he knew to expect it. Saito was…off.

"Saito!" Kenshin chose to clash swords with him. He chose to attack where he knew Saito could defend instead of putting the full force of a Ryūsuisen down on his shoulder. He managed to push Saito back before landing, sheathing his sword in a single stroke. His body ached with some familiarity.

"This one has no idea what has gotten into your head — but you can be sure I _will _use the blunt edge of this sword to _knock it out."_

Saito clenched his teeth, he was moving again. Kenshin narrowly dodged a sideways swipe before bounding forward, slashing with battou-jutsu. Saito moved.

But he moved too slow. He caught the hit on his left side.

Kenshin blinked. Saito should have been able to evade that. There was something wrong with him — beyond him being in no condition to fight right now. It was his legs. Saito's legs had been skewered clean through during their fight against Shishio by Usui the blind sword. Even though his sword was as powerful as ever, and his technique as flawless as it ever was — he wasn't able to keep up the speed of his Shinsengumi prime.

Kenshin regarded him darkly, refusing to let anger cloud his mind. Think. Why did Saito attack him? Kenshin ran his words in his mind again, but nothing he'd said remotely made sense to him. A clan? Hanadas? What did these mean?

Kenshin lowered his sword a little. "Let's stop this."

Saito said nothing.

Kenshin had the succession technique. Amakakeru ryu no Hirameki. Saito knew. He knew practically every move set in Kenshin's arsenal, and he his. Saito had seen Amakekru in action. And he was willing to go against it.

What Saito didn't know was that Kenshin's body was also not what it was. Years ago, that very same Ryūsuisen would not have just pushed Saito back. It would have been enough to shatter his sword — if Saito were less experienced, if he were less wolfish, it would have shattered his arms. But that, too, was a bygone time.

Kenshin's eyes stopped briefly at Megumi. Megumi, holding the wall and looking at Kenshin with strained, haunted eyes. Megumi's past warnings echoed in the back of his mind. _Ken-san, you can't keep using Hiten Mitsurugi ryu. It's ruining you. Every time you use it, you deteriorate a little more. If you keep on pushing yourself, one day you won't be able to fight at all. _Use of Hiten Mitsurugi ryu now came with tension in his muscles, a margin of bearable pain, and a familiar leaden ache.

But Kenshin could not mind this right now.

Saito rounded on him, broken teacups crunching beneath his boots. He walked off the injury. He walked off some of itching fury. He lifted his sword into Gatosu position again and circled Kenshin. Then he began to talk.

"People died last night, Battousai. One of them was a Yakuza. Hiko Seijuro was at the scene. But, _fine,_ gangsters are scum! Maybe that one deserved it. —But the other was a civilian. A nobody civilian who had reels and reels of those—" Saito's eyes darted to the single limp, wet calling card on the floor, "—stuffed down their mouth. And there I was, sitting behind my desk, doing the grunt work of scrolling through mountains of dusty Tokugawa records, until I was greeted with the fact that you lied to me. You lied to me. I thought you wanted to catch the killers. I thought our goals aligned. Penance to those who deserve it. But you lied — to save your own _pride?" _

"Saito!" Kenshin yelled. "Just spit it out!"

"They're twin ginkgo leaves," Saito sneered. His sword veered away, pointing towards the soggy calling card, wet from spilled tea and falling to pieces. The ink of the triangular botches ran everywhere. "It's not just any old symbol. It's a clan insignia. A kamon. The twin ginkgo leaves of the Himura Clan."

* * *

**Downstairs**

A tall woman fell out of the third storey window.

Shinamori Aoshi closed his eyes, opened them, closed them, and then opened them again. The layer of dust that had begun to settle quickly rose again as the woman leisurely got up and started dusting herself off. There was a hole through the paper and balsa windows above and he wasn't sure if he was supposed to do something about it.

His quiet and peaceful meditation time had been disturbed first by some guests yelling, then the Okashira's yelling, and then the window bursting and then falling into pieces to the floor. Aoshi didn't move from the tranquil garden pagoda he was sitting in. The woman seemed unhurt, save for her dirtied clothes. If it was an inn brawl, surely someone would have stopped it from escalating all the way to the third level?

All of sudden, Misao herself jumped from the third storey broken window to the second storey balcony. The sight made every inch of Aoshi seize up in stress, undoing hours of meditation. She was not supposed to be moving in her condition, let alone fighting. "Hey you!" she shouted, hands clenched on the railings and knuckles adorned with a set of sharpened kunai. "Don't you dare run! If you want Grandpa you go through me!"

Misao rolled into a backflip, dispensing her shuriken during the move. Skilled as Misao was, she'd thrown the shuriken with the full weight of her falling momentum, the shuriken now moving at dangerous speeds with an always-startling amount of accuracy. Aoshi got up, eyes darting to the defenceless woman who'd just taken a fall out of a high window, about to be filled with shuriken. He froze mentally when he realised that he there was no way he could stop the shuriken in time.

But, out of the blue, the woman pulled a sword from beneath that enormous cloak. The movement was so fast it would have been incomprehensible to a common civilian's eye. Out and in. Sheathed almost as instantly as it was drawn. Aoshi had only ever seen speed like this from masters of battou-jutsu — and one master in particular. By the time Misao had landed and gotten up, the shuriken were scattered at a safe distance and her cloaked attacker had already flickered to her side.

* * *

Hiko lifted an arm high into the air, ready to deal the finishing blow to knock the Okashira out unconscious. Suddenly, another man seemed to whisk between them, pushing the Okashira out of the way and swiping beneath her feet. Hiko was forced to jump to evade, giving him time to gain distance.

A pair of pensive, intense eyes watched Hiko with an almost animal instinct. He, too, was wearing the matching casual, striped yukata, and the intensity of him seemed a little mismatched.

"Misao," he said quietly. Misao looked extremely wide-eyed and confused in his arms.

"Aoshi-sama?" She twisted, immediately rolling out from under him to point at Hiko. "Aoshi-sama! — she — Okina — intruder!"

"I can see," he said, turning around to face her. "A former onna-bugeisha. How peculiar."

Hiko frowned. "Former?"

Aoshi seemed to look taken aback for a moment. He sighed, then, glancing once to Misao. "If you want to cling to the past, I will not begrudge you that. What with this being a ninja's base in the heart of Kyoto city in this age. But…" Aoshi stepped forward, standing next to Misao. "I can only do that so long as I know you mean no harm. Clearly, I cannot do that."

Hiko looked him up and down, two swords tucked and hidden away by her cloak again. "I assure you I am only here for business. This scuffle was unwarranted." She looked to Misao. "Okashira, I bade you accept my apology."

Misao's eyes narrowed. "The name Okina doesn't exist in Kyoto, except to us — or to those who mean him harm," she said sternly.

"I said I was a friend," Hiko lied.

"You came into an inn armed to the teeth with swords," Aoshi said monotonously. "You attacked my Okashira. You destroyed our window. You are no friend to Okina, nor are you a friend to the Aoiya." Aoshi stepped forward, taking a single kunai blade out of Misao's hand for himself.

Hiko made a displeased face. She parted her cloak to show her swords, a stout warning.

Aoshi did not heed it. He shot forward fast — faster than Misao, faster than Shirojo, Omime, faster than the rest of the lot — with one precise strike he thrust the kunai where Hiko's head would have been if she were a second slower. But she was faster than that, much so. Hiko flashed past the weapon, appearing behind Aoshi in a dusty haze; he swivelled to turn, but she was already moving again, knocking the kunai out of his hand with a favourite of hers — a hard jab to his fingers with the hilt of her sword.

Aoshi dropped the kunai only to catch it with his other hand. He shook his fingers, then went in again. Hiko was planning to end the fight with godspeed when — her breath stopped short in her throat. But Aoshi was coming at her.

Hiko simply held onto her last remaining breath, and drew her sword fully this time. The soft ring of Winter Moon clashed with the kunai — but then a wild act of god happened — what looked like half a tea table came plummeting down from the ceiling — right down onto Misao.

Hiko tried to gasp, but air refused to come back to her. Aoshi also gasped sharply, abandoning his fight with Hiko to get to Misao in time. He leapt at the last moment, reaching her right before the falling debris crashed down on her head, arms raised to shield them both.

But the debris never came down on them.

The half tea table was sliced again in half by battou-jutsu.

Aoshi and Misao looked up. They were in time to see Hiko sheathe Winter Moon, quarter of a table at either side. For a strange, quiet moment, they all looked up, wondering from where the blasted table had come from.

Then Hiko dropped to a knee and began gasping strenuously for breath.

Aoshi rose slowly while Misao scrambled to get up. As they composed themselves, they just stood there, watching Hiko heave for breath. Neither of them could do anything.

"Aoshi?! Misao!" An old, harried voice called out from behind them. The two spun around.

"What on earth are you doing to my friend?!" An old man yelled at them.

"Your…" Misao trailed off, spinning back to eye Hiko.

Aoshi reversed the kunai he had been holding onto with a death grip, and handed it back to Misao. He shed his outer yukata layer, handing that over to daub her blood. "It seems there was a misunderstanding."

With that, he stalked off.

Okina walked up to Hiko, bowing politely. "I'm so glad you've changed your mind about staying at the inn. The weather has finally improved a little, hasn't it?"

Realisation dawned on her, and Hiko looked up with saliva stuck to her mouth.

Okina, the old man with the umbrella, bowed. "Won't you stay and enjoy a home-cooked meal, my friend?"

Hiko stared. "I'm glad it's not too late to take up your offer."

* * *

**Upstairs**

"You," Saito's sword veered back onto the hapless, foolish former rurouni, "—You are a Himura. I understand now. These aren't just another wave of street-side thugs intent on using Battousai's _scary_ name. These impersonators are connected to you. _Himura,_ not Battousai. And you tried to escape liability by holding back information. That's a lie, in my book." Saito shrugged. "By omission, maybe, but all the same in the end."

Himura paced around the room, moving as he did to keep equal distance. "Why would this one do that…" he seemed to begin to say, but then his eyes flashed. The bastard knew he'd kept information from him. Saito could smell the guilt on him. But it was gone as soon as it had come.

Himura continued to keep his cool, his eyes staring up at Saito unblinkingly. Calmly dignified, solemn and lofty. Without any emotion other than the faint sense of indifference directed at Saito's rage. Sharply in contrast to Saito's animalistic stalking, his rattled demeanour and his shaking knuckles.

Saito had lost his cool, and here was Himura, holding onto it effortlessly. High and mighty, looking at him like _he _was the crazy one. It enraged Saito beyond measure. Veins popped in his head, his red, unrested eyes staring daggers at Himura.

"How could you possibly think of protecting your identity over giving _me_ a lead to the killers?" he said lightly.

"Listen. We don't have to fight," Himura said, and Saito felt sick. "This one thinks he understands now..."

"...Enough _drivel."_

Saito Hajime couldn't believe he thought he could possibly shake this man's hand. He couldn't believe he let him say _'we'_ and didn't tell him to take a hike. He couldn't believe he actually imagined, however brief and insane — standing at the back of a little crowd, smoking silently but watching intently, a wolf at a hitokiri's wedding. A different kind of invitation, in another context. Another reality.

…Utter ridiculousness.

The fact was in front of him, glistening like the moon in the dark.

Saito had gone _soft. _

Saito spat on the floor, expelling these useless thoughts, these flaws in his design. He began to circle Himura, falling back into their familiar dance. This time, there was not a grin to be found on his face.

"Saito, just hear this one—"

"Someone else is _dead_. And thanks to your dishonesty, I can gut you here right now and no one will ever fault me for that." Saito breathed in hard, his chest heaving. "Each one of my dunderhead superiors are convinced you are responsible. At least now, I won't have to go through the indignation of begging to differ."

He raised his sword above his head, arching into the true Gatotsu.

But Battousai, his face a still, blank slate, bowed out of battou-jutsu stance. With no seething retort, no anger, and no fanfare, he said, simply—

"I was born to peasants."

Saito's smile dipped a little. But then he gritted his teeth, and advanced. Himura unsheathed his sword — but did not use the succession technique. All he did was meet Saito's sword with his. Metal clanged in their ears upon contact.

"They were farmers. They died of cholera. Like everyone else in the farmland. Our land was already poor, but the daimyo taxed us into ruin regardless. We were serfs. Without title. Without anything — not even the right of having a surname. We had not the privilege."

Saito's face changed into something distinctly unlike him. A wolf caught in headlights. Eyes wide, reflecting back its own surprise. Its own shame.

Himura lifted his head. "Shinta."

"…What?"

"You gave me your discarded name. Now this one give you his."

Saito's anger simmered into ashes, but it hung like a phantom. Like he had learned something about himself he truly did not like. That he was…happy to be betrayed by Himura, as if it were the inevitable slap on the wrist for trusting where he shouldn't have. That he'd felt like he was going against his nature, extending something akin to kindness to someone who had cut down scores of his men during wartime. Men whom Saito buried. Men whom Saito had commanded to their deaths. But Himura had not betrayed him, and he'd jumped to the best conclusion he could live with.

What should it matter, if Himura lied to him? What did he expect, anyway? Was he supposed to take Himura as a paragon of truth? Was he truly _that_ disappointed he'd lied? Or was he just glad to have reprieve from his own seething, pussing guilt.

Regarding Battousai as a friend.

Spitting on all his comrades killed by him.

Saito Hajime looked, in that one moment, more conflicted than he'd ever had holding a sword and hacking people to bits with it.

And what's more, Himura witnessed every bit of this.

As they stood there, swords still crossed between each other, each transfixed with the other's confession, a patter of footsteps ran up behind Saito. But he was too distracted to hear it or have any audio input reach his mind.

The Kamiya girl, wielding her Kamiya Kasshin ryu with all the might in her arms, slammed her wooden bokken into the back of Saito's neck. The bokken cracked in half, spinning in the air.

Saito shook, and fell.

Downed by a civilian girl.

_Marvellous._

* * *

**Notes.**

Have you seen the new live action Rurouni Kenshin: The Final Chapter trailer? If not, here is it in eng sub: youtube (fullstop) com (/) watch?v=a7YIGvOAEbk (remove the brackets and add . and /)

I rewatched a bit of the anime and realised what a small inn the Aoiya actually was. Just imagine that the Aoiya in the fic has been renovated and refurbished so it's big and nice now, a popular family restaurant and inn! Misao is 23 here (omg, right?!) and she's now the Okashira, this will be elaborated on more later :)

Where is Hiko 13? He went home last night to put down his groceries.

Gin, Rori77 and Smile, thanks for hanging with me.


	7. Chapter 7

Hi! Hope you are all safe and well. There will be a **trigger warning** from here on because child trafficking and slavers will be an element of the story. Nothing graphic, but please be aware.

'The night before' is literally chapter 5.

* * *

**The night before**

Whistles rang shrill in the air, a collective cacophony all wound up together like springtime cicadas singing in competition. When Saito got to the scene and an officer started blowing a whistle practically in his face, he slapped it out of their hand. He already had a mind splitting headache without a dozen officers trying to recreate an orchestra with just their whistles for instruments.

"Stop it!" Saito snapped. "Stop all of them. All of them! How many police does it take to secure a crime scene? Stop calling for reinforcements, it's counter-productive."

He went up to the officer who'd found the second body. He was currently crouched by it, his torchlight abandoned at his side as he stared blankly at its face.

"…Have you identified her?"

"Not for sure. But the description matches that of Isaku Doa. One of the two reported missing only days ago by Isaku Iriya. I know, because I took their statement. And she's still wearing the same clothes she was described wearing the day she went missing."

"Hn," Saito mused. "…How old was she?"

Mishima Eiji, his police cap scrunched in his hands, shuffled uncomfortably. He finally pulled his gaze from the body to Saito and answered with practiced composure. "Six."

Saito picked up the torch. He hovered it over. "What's that in her mouth?"

Eiji took one of the slips he'd fished out the victim's oesophagus and held it up to Saito. Saito took it between his gloved fingers, smoothing it out.

It read: _Heaven's Justice _

_By the hand of Himura Kenshin. _

The twin gingkoes leered.

* * *

**Now**

Outside the guest room of the Aoiya inn, Kamoda stood to attention. He hadn't the slightest understanding why Commissioner Fujita had, after debriefing him of everything he'd seen last night, cleared his entire day's schedule to silently walk him to an inn.

Maybe he had finally snapped. Maybe he was finally using the weeks of leave he'd acquired and never used — maybe he was blowing state money on geishas behind closed doors. That would explain why he'd picked Kamoda of all people to stand guard. Spineless, indecisive Kamoda, who had failed big time by acting as he did at last night's crime scene. Useless, fireable Kamoda, who hadn't the backbone to tell on him.

It was an odd time to go to a holiday inn retreat, what with the double murders that happened. If it were anyone else, Kamoda would have felt icky. But inwardly, Kamoda was somehow…relieved that the man was human, each with their vices. Taking a break. Getting some much needed time off. Winding down. Even if it involved marching Kamoda almost murderously into the happiest inn in Kyoto only to shut the door in his face. The man was blunt like that.

"Officer Kamoda?"

Kamoda turned to search for the surprised voice. Slipping between two guests, another uniformed officer was making his way towards him, an arm raised to catch his attention.

Kamoda moved to greet him. "Officer Eiji. Hello."

"Hello."

They exchanged short bows.

Eiji, his hair cropped neatly short, smiled kindly up at Kamoda. He was a rookie having only entered the force for about the tenure of Commissioner Fujita's command, but one wouldn't know that working with him. Eiji might have been young — not yet eighteen — but he always acted in a professional manner, mature beyond his years. Kamoda had always held a bit of affection towards him. And consternation. Eiji's brother, an honoured officer sent to spy on home-grown terrorists years ago, had been killed in action. Now here was Eiji, ever keen to take on as hard assignments as his brother had. He had the drive to climb the ranks where Kamoda did not. No doubt, the Commissioner was aware of this.

"What are you doing here, Eiji?" He looked around for his non-existent partner. "Are you making an arrest all by yourself?"

Eiji rolled his eyes at that. Kamoda kicked himself inwardly. What right did he have to patronise him? They held the same rank, and therefore, were perfectly equal.

"Are you with the Commissioner?" Eiji asked.

"Yes. I'm standing guard."

"In there?"

"In there."

"I have to see him."

Eiji moved to pass him.

Kamoda reluctantly put up his hand to stop him. "You know I can't let you do that, Eiji," he said apologetically. "You know how he hates to be interrupted."

Eiji narrowed his eyes. "He cleared his schedule today. Why?"

"Who knows."

"He never skips work."

"I know."

Eiji pursed his lips, looking like he was weighing the pros and cons of charging into the room. Vacantly, he said, "…He was supposed to have a meeting with Sir Yamagata."

"What?! Now?"

"He's missed it already."

_"…Damn." _

Kamoda cursed again in his head. Yamagata Arimoto, one of the higher ups in the government. He hated Fujita's guts. He was always the one to veto police actions and had delayed much of the work the force had tried to do on various occasions. It wasn't just Kamoda who had a sneaking suspicion he just disliked Fujita personally. Now that Kamoda had heard a certain rumour about the Commissioner's past, he had the idea _that _had something to do with it.

As another, even more incredulous thought slid into Kamoda's mind, he paused. What was Fujita thinking? —Had he axed his meeting with Yamagata, the government official who held his career in his hands — to go fool around with geisha in an inn?

While Kamoda was having trouble picturing that, Eiji had decided he was patently fearless, and shot past Kamoda to slide open the door.

Kamoda panicked. Eiji hero-worshipped the Commissioner. He adored him. What would the rookie think, seeing the Commissioner in such a delicate situation?

"Eiji — wait!" Kamoda cried, as he stumbled through the doors as well.

To his relief, the Commissioner was not actually lounging in the arms of beautiful, expensive women. But the relief was short-lived, because the Commissioner's blade was drawn, crossed in deadlock with another swordsman. Short, red-haired, with a cross-shaped scar. The man that had been at the station the day before, personally invited. They just stood there, pressing into each other's blades hard, teeth locked in grimaces. Then an armed woman ran at the Commissioner, breaking a hard, wooden sword on his neck.

The Commissioner, caught off guard (off-guard? How was that even possible?) — fell.

_"Commissioner!"_ Kamoda yelled.

_"Shishou!"_ Eiji yelled.

It was Eiji's cry that moved Kamoda first. He'd never seen Eiji's eyes that wide, that confused, darting between the audience of people watching on the sidelines. It was as if he knew these people, the way he stared at them. Kamoda already had his rifle in his hands. Thinking nothing, he acted on instinct, pointing his rifle at the Commissioner's opponent. The short redhead. He pulled the trigger—

But his feet lost balance out of nowhere. A man had punched into the floor, reducing it to sand, sawdust, flying particles — and he pounced on Kamoda as the shot fired off into the roof, his clothes flashing the ominous word, _Aku. _

"KAMODA!" Commissioner Fujita actually screamed. "DON'T SHOOT BATTOUSAI!"

His words shocked both Kamoda and Eiji. But Kamoda wouldn't get another chance to act.

A woman yelled, _"Sano, stop him!"_ and his rifle was yanked out of his hands by sheer force. Unarmed, Kamoda squared up to Sano, the muscular man wearing Aku on the back of his clothes, flitting two hard strikes at him. But Sano deflected easily, throwing an uppercut that hit him on-mark in the jaw. Kamoda wobbled to a stop. He lashed out, but it was no use. Sano had easily wrestled him to the floor, bending his arms behind his back.

Kamoda opened his eyes just in time to witness a civilian teenager come rocketing in. Paper stars fell out every which way from his clothes like a trail of breadcrumbs. He was the only one in the room who took no notice of this. After a once-over, he pointed his own wooden bokken at the downed Commissioner, who was still getting his bearings resting on a knee.

_"Yahiko!"_ the redhead cried. _"Don't!"_

"What happened? What did he do?!" the Yahiko boy said loudly, waving the wooden sword in the Commissioner's face. "Who got shot?!"

At this point, Eiji had gotten over whatever had caused him to freeze to the spot. With his face scrunched in unbelievable offence and determination, he unsheathed his sword. In a quick, graceful arc, he lifted it into what Kamoda could understand was the_ Gatotsu _stance.

"Get away from Shishou!"

Eiji charged with speed Kamoda had no idea he had. The other teenage boy — Yahiko — seemed to react just as fast — side-stepping at the last moment, spinning with wooden sword to make a counter attack. But Eiji, well-trained, recovered. He sent a side-slash towards Yahiko. Yahiko ducked. He sprung back, slashing his sword upwards — an attack stronger than Eiji's slower defence.

But the attack failed before it was struck. Yahiko's wooden sword was still just a wooden sword — it split apart at Eiji's real, lethally sharp blade. Something even more bizarre happened as the teenagers struck their final blows — a strange, red blur flitted before Kamoda's vision, shifting bright mist, when the man the Commissioner had been fighting appeared beside Eiji.

He easily manoeuvred Eiji's sword with his own, spinning it around, wedging it hard into the floor. The scuffle was over. And Kamoda had no idea what had just happened.

Then, before the dust had settled, another, less weighty pitter patter of feet sounded upon the floorboards. A young child waddled belatedly after Yahiko. With every few steps, the child bent to pick up a dropped paper star, all the way into the room. Another redhead.

"Nii-chan?" the child called. He tilted his head, his eyes falling on the mysterious, strange, wrong, backwards blade the redheaded man was holding. "Are you practising? I can help, Papa! I can spa!" he cried.

The adults in the room, including the man pinning Kamoda's arms behind his back, all seemed to loosen up, calm down, and look vaguely embarrassed.

"He means: spar," Sano added over Kamoda's wriggling.

Commissioner Fujita, his ears red with stress, looked at the child with wide, enormous eyes.

"…Himura. What the hell is that?"

* * *

**Downstars**

The calm music of shamisen strings, and the laughter and chatter of guests in the meeting area made up white noise in the distance that was easily and abruptly cut off by the door shutting behind the employees as they left the room. Employees that were ninja in disguise, existing in broad daylight, so skilled in their illusion the Aoiya seemed every bit the peaceful inn all within the city had been led to believe.

Hiko Seijuro the Twelfth sat in a beautifully furnished room plied with tea, her cloak wrapped around her. Okina sat opposite, making small talk about music and the price of rice that soon fizzled into a silence. It was not uncomfortable — Okina, sharp as he was, seemed to be aware of her lung sickness, and allowing her silence without question was his way of being polite. Hiko _was _grateful for the rest. She used the time to breath in and out, in and out, forcing her heartbeat back down to normal to recover from her episode.

After a few moments to collect herself, Hiko Seijuro the Twelfth looked up.

"Years ago, there was a village at the base of Mount Atago. It was small, filled mostly with poor farmers. However, the land was conquered by a strong, well-known family," she said. Okina nodded, shutting his eyes as if imaging her story.

"The elder Himura Kin was a samurai, known for his influence and ruthlessness, leader to his clan. His son, Masakazu, was training in swordsmanship with his father. The both of them purported to serve the Shogunate," she continued in a monotonous tone, as if she did not personally care for these people she was remembering. As if they were truly distant figures in a cautionary tale, told to children to keep them humble.

"Masakazu was strong, proud, and almost as ruthless as his father," Hiko's lip jumped a little. "Together they were quite formidable and, to put it lightly, very hated. Especially by their neighbouring rivals. The equally strong Hanadas."

Okina sighed, and his eyes flashed with some recognition. "I remember the man. The tyrant Himura Kin. Regarded as little more than a lord of bandits, in my day. Though I only know this through hearsay, being based in Edo." He sat back with a smirk he didn't bother to hide, the lines on his face shifting in some dark amusement. "I suppose karma does dole out justice sometimes. They died, didn't they? In a fire."

Hiko nodded.

She could still remember the little line of smoke rising into the air in the evening light. By nightfall the sky was still bright, thick with smoke that blotted out the stars and reflected back the red of the flames.

She took a sip of her tea. "They didn't just die in a fire. They were slaughtered. The Hanada and Himura clans were at war with each other for years until the Himuras finally wiped the Hanadas off the map." Hiko scoffed. "They were thorough about it, too. Weeding out every possible heir, beheading every man and boy with even a hint of distant Hanada family blood. The remaining Hanada loyalists, stripped of their lands, stripped of their power, lay siege to the Himuras in the night. They used a fire to smoke the people out. Then they slaughtered everyone. Burned everything to the ground." Hiko ran a hand through her hair. "The clan head perished. And Masakazu, only a few weeks renamed with his _noble warrior's name_, as ever — copied his father."

"Good riddance," Okina remarked, and Hiko tensed up in agitation, despite every inch of her knowing he was in the right. "…But what does this have to do with your missing disciple?"

"Everything!" Hiko started. "Because the Himura and Hanada feud is still going," she said, "Because Himura Kin had another son. My boy, Himura Miki."

Okina was quiet for a moment. "It was well known that Himura Kin only had one son."

"He lied," Hiko said. "…Miki suffered from an illness that left him very weak. Because of this he was pampered by his mother. But otherwise, he was ignored by his father. He alone survived his family's demise."

Hiko swallowed, trying hard not to cross her arms or ball her hands into fists. "But now the Hanadas know of his existence." Hiko couldn't help her scoff. "They can't restore the Hanada Clan. The male line has been quite _soundly_ extinguished. So all they have left is retribution. And they won't stop this feud until the entire Himura line is dead."

"Hm." Okina shook his head sadly; like he'd seen it all before, and couldn't truly bring himself to be surprised or sorry. "An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. And sons for sons."

_In the woods, slashing away vines, high-strung to the point of flinching at sounds of stoats and weasels like a kid afraid of the dark, Hiko Seijuro swallowed her pride and started screaming. "Miki! Deshi! Miki!" She screamed and screamed until she stopped breathing. Then she leaned on a tree, opening her mouth to draw breath and getting no relief from it. No cold rush of air into her lungs, no physical satisfaction. She just stood there, sword in her hand, gasping over and over as her lungs failed her. _

_Guilt suffocated her. Hiko did not delude herself, she knew exactly what she had done. It was test, she would not tell herself, because it was cruel and underhanded. She read the strangers' ki, let them approach in the round, knew they would attack, and sent her deshi into a closed off space to fend for his life. Then she sat back and watched, thinking that would shock Miki into using her ryu. _

_And he'd used it. He had no choice. _

_It was Hiten Mitsurugi ryu or his life. _

_What absolutely animal logic. What unabashed cruelty. Something Himura Kin would do without flinching. Something she'd once promised herself she'd never inflict on a deshi of her own…Hiko gasped and gasped, going light headed…until suddenly air occupied her lungs again, airways clearing of its obstructions…_

_But why should she be guilty? _

_Kill or die. That was the only choice one made when faced with real hardship. The inevitable. Even if Miki wouldn't face it now, he'd face it in the future. What difference would it make to teach this lesson now? The world was cruel, and Hiko had to carve out a bloody place for her to exist in. She knew, and he knew: swordsmanship is the art of killing. It was not a test. It was a taste of reality. _

_Hiko wanted to make sure that if it was between Miki's life and the life of some other samurai filth he'd choose himself. Because he was her chosen heir, the vessel to carry Hiten Mitsurugi ryu, and she'd kill a hundred men, a thousand, to ensure his survival. The line of Mitsurugi ryu, borne from the Sengoku Era five hundred years strong, could not die out. The legacy of the great masters of the past relied on her, twelfth of her name. She killed her master for this, and he killed his to hand it to her, and he killed his, and his, and his. Mitsurugi ryu was power and discipline and knowledge more precious than life. _

_Nothing else mattered. She would eventually die, and Miki would eventually die — but they, eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth, on and on — they had a duty to ensure 'Hiko Seijuro' lived on. _

_She refused to be the weak link. _

_Hiko the Twelfth got up, wiped her mouth, and continued looking for Miki. _

In the sunny Aoiya hall, the shamisen song had ended. Okina, a ninja himself no matter how he put on a weak man's visage, had been testing her ki all this time. Hiko now understood that was the reason he'd left her so easily in the rain before. He'd felt her fighting prowess and knew she'd have no trouble fending off a few thugs in the mud.

"All of this. All of it is for a child?" Okina echoed, his eyes soft.

Though he could test her ki right now, feel its agitation, it's riled sincerity, he could be none the wiser to what was going on in her head.

"Yes." Hiko thumbed the empty tea cup in her hand. With a soft smile on his face, Okina poured her another cup. "I will do anything to get my baka deshi back."

Her eyes flickered above the cup, ready to gauge the old man's reaction.

"You must know that children have been targets in this city," Okina said solemnly. He was not startled by her blunt words, nor her emotion. He sat up suddenly, straightening from his old man's haunch, and between one moment and the next, he was ninja. No longer having tea, but talking business and unspeakable things. He leaned forward darkly.

"Seijuro-dono. How old did you say your deshi was? Twelve?" Okina inquired, and watched Hiko tense up in her seat. "They don't want infants," he said dismissively. "Too hard to look after. Too brittle. Anything older than fourteen? Too old. Unpredictable. Uncontrollable. Not as easy to mould into pliant slaves. They want obedience for where these victims are being funnelled. Out of Kyoto, where there is civilisation and law enforcement and parents. Off the main roads, where there are people with eyes. Into small villages. Rural areas. To farmers as farmhands. To kitchens as kitchen boys. To pleasure houses. Geisha houses. Most of them will end up indentured servants. All of them will be used until they die young. Then they'd get a new batch in."

Hiko could feel her stomach turn. Okina finished by taking a sip of his cold tea. "That's the kind of thing we're up against. Isn't it, Aoshi?"

Hiko turned around. The tall man she'd expected lingered in the corner, arms crossed looking pensive as ever. He was out of the striped yukata, dressed in a long coat of some sort with a glaring yellow collar. Aoshi seemed to just take in the scene for a moment, surveying Hiko as she stared back openly. Then his eyes flickered to Okina.

"…Are you done blathering on about useless things?" Aoshi stepped forward as Hiko got up. Without looking at her, he said, "Don't let the old man fool you. He is completely incensed by the subject matter. He's even gone back to his old ways. Torturing men for information. Isn't that right, Okina?"

Hiko's brow rose at that. She filed the information away.

Okina gave a small, controlled smile. "Must you embarrass me in front of my guest?" he tutted. "Insolent Aoshi."

"The only insolent one is you. Acting as if this information is yours to give. When your methods achieved nothing."

Aoshi turned to Hiko. He held out a hand. Hiko looked down at it as if he meant to give her something, but there was nothing there. After half a minute, Aoshi retracted his hand.

"The Western way of greeting," he said awkwardly, but Hiko didn't understand the explanation. Aoshi inclined in the slightest bow instead. "But I shouldn't be so forward. Shinomori Aoshi."

Hiko inclined her head. "I am Seijuro," she introduced officially. "…How is the Okashira?" Hiko asked tentatively.

Aoshi's face did not show a shred of emotion as he said, "Fine." He turned suddenly, staring down Okina with a poisonous look. "Why don't you tell your guest how the Okashira attained those injuries?"

Okina opened his mouth and laughed. _"Hahaha!_ As you wish, Aoshi. As you wish, I will not take credit that is not mine. Forgive me, Seijuro-dono," Okina started, calming himself down, "Our little Misao is the leader of the Oniwabanshuu right now. Days ago, she came across a tip to catch some Yakuza in the act of hauling goods. Imagine our surprise when she comes back with a wound in her side, smiling like no tomorrow, telling us she'd found their base."

"So you found them?!" Hiko piped up.

"One of their bases," Aoshi deadpanned. "But yes. Misao has drawn up a map."

"Your disciple is the right age," Okina added, "and he disappeared at the right time. There is a good chance you may find him tonight by raiding the base."

Hiko shut her eyes, halfway to relief. She teetered on the edges of expelling a torturously held breath, and the experience of knowing not to get her hopes up. "Thank you. That's all I needed: a lead to the slave traders. I shall go tonight." Hiko nodded to them both with neither of them on her mind. Her thoughts were already elsewhere: how long Miki had been missing, whether she could find him before the Hanadas did, what condition he might be in.

When she'd come back to the house, when she gave up on the Hanada woman, when the blood of the Himura bodies had already run cold, she found Miki's sword. Sheathed and neatly placed on the ground where she'd left him. The discovery had stung a little, then. That Miki had made a decision that day she had yet to understand. Now she did. But now that sword gave Hiko a much more practical concern. Without his sword, Miki was defenceless. Hiko marched towards the door, gripping Winter Moon with a white-knuckled grip.

But before she could take her leave, Aoshi produced a longsword out of nowhere, blocking her path. He shook his head once. "Going alone is suicide."

"I wouldn't be so sure, Aoshi," Okina said.

Hiko angled her own sword to push his away. "You would slow me down."

"In a fight? ...Perhaps," Aoshi conceded, "But wouldn't a guide who knows Kyoto city be much to your advantage?"

Hiko weighed her options again. These were ninja. Fighters who refused to fight in the light, who imbued themselves in the art of deception, surprise attacks, infiltration. Their warfare was smoking things out from the inside. Lighting a fire and then watching people burn. Cutting them down as they fled to escape. The ways of the ninja were not of the code of bushido; they were like oil and water, dark and light. And they were beneath the honour of samurai. Not worth the notice of an onna-bugeisha. Hiko could not truly trust Okina — ninja did not live to be old men if they were lousy at their craft — and she wasn't stupid enough to give these people her title and name. Moreover, Aoshi had been one of her attackers and the only one she couldn't finish off in an instantaneous fashion. Going with him at her side was a risk.

Aoshi stood darkly, awaiting her answer. "We go at sundown. Under the cover of night." He dipped his head. "I will be your second."

Hiko sighed.

In the past maybe she'd see her way out. Maybe she would take offence and turn Hiten Mitsurugi ryu upon them in broad daylight. But that was not now. Right now, Hiko Seijuro the Twelfth was fast reaching an inability to care. If she would kill a hundred men, a thousand, a hundred thousand, what is it to work with a ninja for a night? Her pride did not matter. Miki did.

"Very well," Hiko inclined her head towards Aoshi. "We leave at last light."

Aoshi nodded in agreement. Their business was concluded, and somewhat surprising to Hiko, he propped his sword casually against the wall. Then he reached for some tea. There wasn't a cup laid out for him, so he just helped himself to Okina's. Hiko wondered a moment what this man did for the inn. Clearly, he was a ninja at his base of operations, but did he also greet guests at the door like the Okashira? Did he also wait tables and change guest bedsheets? And the Okashira. She had called him 'Aoshi-sama.' But he acknowledged her as his superior. It was as if within these walls things were upside down.

"But Aoshi," Okina started as the man turned, and Aoshi looked poised to flee the room, "I think you're forgetting something. Do you think Misao will approve of you taking this mission?"

There was a smug undercurrent to Okina's words that Hiko pretended not to notice, but which Aoshi focused-in on keenly.

"Are you willing to go without her blessing?" Okina pressed.

"This isn't a mission," Aoshi declared with almost petulant force. He shuffled uncomfortably, his eyes darting half a second to Hiko. "…It's just returning a favour."

Okina chuckled. "If you think that is enough to placate her."

"We are not telling Misao."

"You _forget_ yourself, Aoshi."

Aoshi turned back, swiping the tail of his coat behind him in a long, offended swoop. "She was shot through the side. She risked her life for this lead. She would insist on directing the mission. And she will _die_ overzealous," Aoshi said bluntly. "We are not telling her about this 'favour' because we value the fact that the Oniwabanshu, for once, has a worthy Okashira."

Okina went quiet, seeming to soak in those words. Aoshi was too, as if he were surprised at himself for saying it. Hiko watched Okina and Aoshi distantly.

Finally, Aoshi faced Hiko with a look. "Nothing we have said leaves this room."

Hiko crossed her arms. "So long as you take me to these Yakuza, I don't much care what you do or say in your own time. Show me the way. Take me to the base. You will have my silence easily."

Aoshi relaxed, which was an almost imperceptible change in his shoulders.

"Fine. Enough, Aoshi," Okina started again jovially, and clapped his hands together. "Go away. What Seijuro-dono needs right now is rest. She has a big night ahead of her. Why don't you make yourself useful and fetch our esteemed guest some taiyaki snacks."

* * *

**Upstairs**

Kenji stood at the threshold of the room, eyeing everyone in wide-eyed fascination and forgetting his scrunched up origami shuriken balled up in his little hands. He'd been brought up in a dojo, where he usually wrestled around in the dust with the other kids and joined in the fray when adults practiced swordless judo throws. He often watched people tousling while practicing Kamiya Kasshin ryu and loved whacking every leg within sight with sticks Yahiko liked to keep him supplied with.

It was no wonder that he saw nothing strange about the carnival of adults at each other's throats. The view of Kamoda getting manhandled by Uncle Sano, Yahiko nii-chan crossing swords with another big brother, and Mama and Papa standing over a surrendered police officer, put a huge smile on Kenji's face.

Kenji scuttled across the floor to pick up the top half of Yahiko's bokken. "Nii-chan, it's broken."

"…Yeah." Yahiko stepped in front so that he obscured the real sword stuck in the floorboards. "That's what happens with you play with a katana outside of the dojo, got it, punk?"

Kenji scoffed, a high pitched blubber. "Yer lying. No it's not."

"Yes it is."

"No it's not!"

"Yes. It is. And I have proof."

"What proof?!"

"You're holding it. Grow a brain, Ken-chan!"

"Yahiko," Kaoru cried, "Enough!"

"Wha — _me? _— He started it!"

"No I did'n!"

While they argued, everyone began to move. Sano got off of Kamoda, helping him untwist his arms before dragging him up to his feet at once. Then he patted his shoulder like they were friends. Megumi dived for the firearms, fumbling around with it until the bullets expelled. Eiji yanked his sword out and hid it dutifully from view until he could sheathe it out of sight. Kenshin sheathed his sakabatou, held out a hand for Saito, then dropped it knowing he'd hate the gesture. Saito sheathed his own sword, getting up and rubbing the back of his neck.

They got to work.

The wooden debris was brushed up into a small pile under the broken window, with the remaining half of the tea table propped up against the wall. In the hubbub, someone had actually called for room service, before long Megumi was pouring tea in a line of painted, floral cups. Whoever had called for service had evidently been too embarrassed to ask for another table, so they just placed the cups neatly on the floor.

"Commissioner," Megumi said sternly. "You should let me check you over."

Saito reacted by looking at her as if she was out of her mind. "I'm fine."

"Kaoru _broke_ her bokken with the help of _your neck._ You need something for the swelling."

"Hn…"

They sat in awkward silence while Megumi allowed Saito to peruse her selection of balms. Eiji and Kamoda were quickly ejected from the room, courtesy of Saito, who'd harshly rebuked them in hushed tones huddled in a corner. The two trailed out and shut the door. It seemed even Saito didn't want to cause a scene in front of the child now babbling and prancing about everyone's legs. Especially since he commanded Kamoda to get back in and take away the firearms. Saito seemed to just stow everything away in a single breath. Now he was calm and placid as ever, with just a few hairs out of place.

"Pa…Papa!" Kenji kept pulling on Kenshin's hair before Kenshin leaned down to let him whisper in his ear.

"Oro? No, no, no — not now Kenji. We can have dango any time in Tokyo. This is Kyoto. We can't eat dango here, that we can't. The dango is poisoned, that it is! Do you want poisoned dango? This one thinks not, that he does."

As everything piped down, Kenshin, Kaoru and Megumi sat on one side of the tea. Saito sat on the other. Sano sat leaned onto the back wall while Yahiko stood like a bodyguard. Kenshin talked more about the dangers of Kyoto dango until he accidentally caught Saito's eye.

"…Oro, Kenji," Kenshin started, "ororo, look here. This is Papa's…" He paused. "…This is Papa's friend. Saito-san—"

"Fujita."

"—Fujita-san."

Kenji took a moment to stop pulling Kenshin's hair and look at Saito. With a few wide-eyed blinks, he retreated shyly to Kaoru.

"Kenji, that's so rude! What do you say to Papa's guests?" Kaoru chastised. As if she hadn't slammed her bokken into his neck. Kenji reappeared from behind Kaoru to give a small bow.

"Hello…"

Saito stared. Then he gave a small, reserved nod. Kenji shied away, but smiled.

"His name is Kenji," Kenshin said sheepishly. "You'll have to forgive his manners, that you must."

"I was not aware."

"Yes. Well. Now you are."

"Do not interrupt," Saito said. "I was not aware…you were so dim as to take your child with you to Kyoto in the middle of your being accused of murder." Saito sat back, as if to take a breath and spare his ire on something that was clearly not his business. "What in damnation happens in that thick head of yours, I wonder?"

"We couldn't leave him alone in Tokyo," Kenshin said defensively. "It's his birthday soon. This lowly one is not low enough to miss his son's birthday."

"Birthday?" Saito put down his teacup, but he did it with so much force he ended up breaking it in the process. The teacup just splintered in his fingers. He was trying to be courteous, trying so hard to be calm, but he might as well have thrown it against a wall. "You are being _framed_ by belligerents, and you worry about counting your whelp's candles?!"

For some reason, Kenshin was more perturbed that Saito understood the Western custom of birthday candles than anything else.

But Kenji startled at the raised voice. Saito's eyes, back with its wolfish glint, wandered to him. Then he shut his eyes and rapidly composed himself. His voice went very small. "…My apologies. Kenji-kun. How old are you turning?"

Kenji bobbed his head to one side. "…Four."

"…A joyous occasion."

Kenji nodded with his head at an angle.

"Yes, that's right, Kenji! Four!" Kaoru praised, and Kenji beamed. "Yahiko, if you could," Kaoru went on politely, and in the short pause before another argument could bubble up, Yahiko obliged without complaining. Yahiko held out his hand. Kenji clasped onto it gratefully and also didn't complain when Yahiko led him out of the room.

"You owe me another one," Yahiko called behind his back to Kaoru.

There was another rest of awkward silence. Suddenly, out of the blue, Saito picked up the teapot and began refilling the tea. A gesture of apology for what had transpired. And a begrudging truce.

Kenshin, looking anywhere but at Saito, accepted the refilled tea.

He started over. "This lowly one was not aware you had taken a disciple, Saito."

Despite everything, Kenshin couldn't help the smile on his lips. On the last day they were in Shingetsu Village, a town abandoned by the government that Kenshin and Saito had freed from Shisho's rule, Saito had promised to take in an orphaned boy before finding him a more permanent home. Eiji was the younger brother of one of his men that had perished in duty. Small, grieving, and endlessly determined. It occurred to Kenshin that Eiji simply never left Saito's care. Instead he had entered into his tutelage.

"But seriously, Gatotsu?" Sano piped up from the back. "You taught a real life kid Gatotsu?"

"I can't believe I'm saying this," Megumi said, rolling her eyes, "but he is literally your age when you were a street brawler for hire."

"Damn. Is he?"

Kenshin smirked. He'd been surprised Eiji had pulled that attack. A rendition of a technique designed by the second in command of the Shinsengumi, Hijikata Toshizo. Perfected by Saito to suit his destructive, precision-style attacks. It was his own invention, and a closely guarded secret. For him to teach it to someone else made Kenshin flagrantly aware of what position Eiji held in Saito's eyes. This revelation shocked him, in some way. That Saito had a private life outside of being a wolf, being commissioner; and somehow, Eiji fitted into that. That Saito valued Eiji enough to pass down his favoured technique.

Kenshin looked down. His mind went wandering…

Wandering to Hiko.

Saito had taught Gatotsu to Eiji, and not only were they still both alive and well, Eiji had grown up to be part of the force directly under Saito. They talked and worked together. Eiji had even drawn in Saito's defence. None of them had tried to murder the other. There was no need.

"How old is he?" Kenshin asked.

"Old enough to control his sword arm. He will _not _be pulling Gatotsu on anymore civilians if he wants to _keep_ his sword arm," Saito grimaced. Kenshin's smile dipped and faltered, and he gave Saito a warning look. Saito waved it away. "Enough drivel. That's not what I'm here for."

"Then what_ are_ you here for?" Kaoru asked pointedly.

Saito breathed in hard as he stared daggers at her. He gave her a look that said he was already being deeply courteous so as to not bring up her ambush attack. Though he was not going to forget it any time soon. In a smooth motion, his hand wandered to his sword on the floor at his side. He seemed to just gaze at it in thought, not picking it up.

"…They had you wear a wakizashi." Saito's eyes flickered up to Kenshin. "The Ishin Shishi."

A heavy, tense moment passed, where Kaoru, Megumi and Sanosuke steeled themselves. They all knew how Kenshin's past was a sensitive topic. How Kenshin had surrendered to them by telling them about the scars on his face. They each looked to him with concealed thoughts. If Kenshin did not answer, they would fight for him, admonish Saito, bring up things such as warrants and rights in this Meiji Era. But there was no need. Kenshin took a breath.

"Yes. This one was given one," Kenshin said quaintly. "…A lot of protocol was put in place. This one was handed a wakizashi. A daisho set. My identity carefully concealed — not only from the outside, but also within the Shishi. Okubo did not know. Saigo's faction certainly did not know. I was passed off as Choshu to the Satsuma. I was passed off as an affiliate to the Choshu. My superiors completely denied my existence to Tosa. Aizu. The truth of my status was deeply secret."

Kenshin smiled a little, a small hint of irony after all these years. A well-kept secret that did not mean anything, anymore, and hadn't for a decade. "This lowly one was never samurai."

"I don't understand," Sano started, his eyes wide. "…You were _Hitokiri Battousai." _

"Don't you know this much?" Megumi seemed shaken. Though she knew what Sano had meant, she still rushed to explain. "One is born samurai. Kaoru was born a daughter of samurai. Yahiko was born a son of samurai. The Commissioner was born into a samurai clan. Ken-san…" her lips curled into a smirk, savouring the irony. "Ken-san is simply a swordsman."

Saito sat stock straight in seiza position, listening intently. It occurred to Kenshin that Saito had thought he, like many revolutionaries and agents in the unrest of war in Kyoto, had come from noble beginnings. Samurai were noblemen, that was a fact of life. Saito himself had come from that caste, even if he was once cast out. All in the Choshu Clan, including Kenshin's commander, Katsura, were descendants of old samurai blood. It was a reasonable connection to make, to assume Kenshin was the same.

Saito's eyes gleamed, the cogs turning in them. He was in deep thought, obviously in turmoil. A peasant boy at Katsura's side. A serf without heritage in the ranks of the upper echelon revolutionaries — this ludicrousness was outdated now, it mattered no more than their feud in war, and the people who would have revelled in its absurdity no longer existed.

Despite everything, neither of them had remotely cared about the other's past. If not for these series of killings, they would have gone on the rest of their lives without even the curiosity. But now Kenshin sat in a room, poised to let the likes of Saito dissect his life. Saito looked as if he wanted to ask something, like how Kenshin could possibly had slipped in between Choshu ranks. How utterly unheard of this was: that Battousai was a no one.

Instead, he snapped his fingers. "Mishima. Enter."

A moment later, Eiji entered and bowed formally. "Yes, Shishou." But he rose and smiled delightfully at Kenshin.

"Eiji! It truly is so good to see you!" Kenshin bowed a little and smiled largely as well. "You've grown so much. It brings this one more joy than you can know, to see you grown up and well like this."

"Himura-san! I'm so happy to see you as well! It's been so long — con-congratulations for you and Kamiya-san!" he grinned, dimples sinking into his cheeks, making his face light up like a bulb. But then he quickly dimmed as he dipped to say, "I'm so sorry about before! I really didn't know what was happening and—"

"—And I'll speak with you about that later," Saito finished for him. "Mishima. Tell Hitokiri Battousai what developments happened last night."

Eiji knelt next to Saito and nodded. "Right. Himura-san, everyone. You must know that for the last four months, there have been a series of murders done by what we suspect is an attempt to use your infamy…as—as others have done before. However, we think differently now. We don't think they're using you, we think they're _targeting _you, Himura-san. Bodies have been left out in alleys and—"

"Speed it up, Mishima," Saito said. "The Himura Clan."

"Right," Eiji went on. "Shishou had a suspicion the symbols drawn on the back of the calling cards were integral. That it was a _kamon_ insignia for a group or clan. We've had tons of people come in to identify it — but yesterday it was finally identified. We found it in old, Tokugawa records. A clan kamon with two gingko leaves." Eiji looked up at Kenshin. "Belonging to the extinct Himura Clan."

Eiji paused. Saito sipped his tea. Kenshin shut his eyes in as if in pain. Sano got up from the back wall and plod himself down closer to the rest of them.

"The Himura Clan," Eiji went on, glancing at Saito, "—All the records said was that they perished in a feud against another clan, called Hanada. Last night, the victim we found had more of the gingko leaf calling cards with your name on it." Eiji's eyes went downcast. He went quiet for a moment, anticipating shock that did not come.

"Like the one Saito showed us?" Kaoru piped up.

Eiji nodded.

"Well, what's novel about that? Many incidents of this kind has happened these past few months," Megumi said. "People hate Battousai — we're aware!" she said snidely.

"No—" Eiji shuffled uncomfortably. "Himura-san, they — they literally had your name on it. Not just 'Battousai.'"

"Himura," Kenshin said.

"No. Your personal name." Saito silenced them all with a look. "Kenshin."

Saito rejoined in the conversation. He turned back to Kenshin, looking at him with barely concealed tiredness.

"_Heaven's Justice. By the hand of Himura Kenshin." _He repeated the new rendition of the slip with robotic quality. "Such a small change…with monumental repercussions. They know exactly who you are. They have sent you a message through the calling cards. And now that message has changed."

"They know I'm here."

"Indeed."

Kenshin sighed. "You thought this one was connected to them. You thought whoever is behind this knows my past. That they are _from_ my past. That is why you wanted to know it. But this is the truth, that it is." Kenshin looked Saito stark in the eyes. "This one has no past."

From nothing, there was Battousai.

Kenshin used to wonder how differently his life would be, if he weren't in that field, Hiten Mitsurugi ryu in his small hands, spotted afar by Takasugi on his horse…

"Then there's only one question that needs to be asked," Saito went on. "You said you were surname-less. Only an childhood name, 'Shinta.' Simple. Who gave you the swordsman's name 'Himura Kenshin?'"

"This…" Kenshin's eyes widened. "This one's shishou. He gave me my name."

Saito did not smile, unamused. He just gave Kenshin a knowing look, like he already knew the answer. Like everything was going his way again, except every new confirmation was like a blow to the head, making him worse for wear. He enjoyed being right, but he couldn't even enjoy that satisfaction right now.

He snapped his fingers again, it seeming to reverberate in the silent anticipation of the room. "Kamoda. Enter."

Kenshin turned. Kamoda, one of Saito's subordinates, shuffled up to them and bowed formally. "Commissioner, you called."

"I did. Now, tell Himura what _you_ witnessed last night."

* * *

The day dragged on.

Kamoda relayed the events he saw the night before, talking fast and floundering. He spoke about the body, the missing finger, the strange, cloaked man. The description of the man was like flash photography, coming into view from a void in Kenshin's mind. Tall man, long cloak, red collar, booze. Kenshin listened on grimacing. When Kamoda finished, Kenshin thanked him politely before turning to Saito.

"And you were there afterwards," Kenshin confirmed, feeling tired just from the morning. The only one who might be able to accurately identify the technique would be Saito. "You are sure it is Kuzuryusen?"

Saito's eyes narrowed. "There were nine cuts. About fourteen pieces of body we had to divvy up into little bags. Yes," he said curtly, "I think that was Kuzuryusen." He paused a second. His calm facade fluctuated a moment. He seemed inwardly to realise he hadn't a reason to hold back. "If I had any trouble identifying it — it would be because I've only witnessed that weak lampoon of an attack you perform."

Kenshin turned away, unbothered.

Saito struggled a moment. "What are the chances of victory if we both go against Hiko Seijuro?"

"Low." Kenshin shrugged. "…This one is weaker than Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth."

"Of course you are," Saito dismissed. "—What about in your prime?"

Kenshin stared at Saito with an incredulous look. As he couldn't believe he was asking. It took effort for Kenshin to unclench his teeth. "When I left him to be Battousai, my master could defeat me in perhaps three strikes of his sword."

A long, hollow silence deafened the room.

"Something still doesn't add up." Kaoru gave Kenshin a look, reminding him of their earlier conversation. "Kamoda-san said that Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth came to the scene after Kamoda-san himself." She turned to Kamoda with an appreciative nod. "How could he have possibly perpetrated the attack if he arrived after? Why would he approach an officer if it would incriminate him?"

Kaoru pursed her lips, her brows drawn in a tight crease. "Kamoda-san," she piped up when no one spoke, "What is your opinion on the matter?

Kamoda blinked. "…Ms Himura…I don't believe this 'Hiko Seijuro Thirteenth' was the perpetrator," Kamoda said a little louder than he needed to. His shoulders sagged as everyone turned their attentions to him. "…I think—I've been thinking about what he said. He asked after how many attacks there had been…He told me to call for reinforcements. Also to 'Clean the place up.' And 'Leave the killer for me to deal with.'"

Kenshin took this in. Saito gave Kamoda a dirty look.

Perhaps Hiko had circled back after he'd done the deed…or he'd lied to get the police off his tail…Kenshin sighed loudly. As if Hiko cared about being accused. If he wanted to kill someone, he'd do it openly and happily. Kenshin couldn't make sense of this. He'd been trying not to think of Hiko at all for the past few hours. That seemed more than ever like a dead end thought.

"I think Kamoda-san's right," Kaoru said.

Saito turned to her tiredly. "Kamoda's _opinions_ do not matter. Neither, fortunately, do yours."

Kenshin soured, and Saito turned to him abruptly. His ki had swelled.

"What?! You can't disregard your own officer's evidence," Kaoru sat up staunchly. "It sounds like Kamoda-san and Hiko-san were _both_ witnesses after the fact."

Kamoda, who said nothing else, seemed to sink into the floor.

Whatever remained of Saito's patience also expired. But instead of stalking off, ending this exchange, he explained. "If this were any other case, that would put a damper on things. But, Kamiya girl, the evidence of Kuzuryusen is more than enough."

Saito got up suddenly. He inclined his head to them in gratitude. It took him tremendous effort. "…What are you going to do, Himura?"

Kenshin took a moment. "I need to think. This one will alert you in a few days."

Saito nodded languidly. He lingered in the doorway, eyes darting between escape out the door and Kenshin in the room. After a while, he spoke softly. "They are after you, Himura. Do you understand? The longer I cannot solve this, and the longer I do not catch them, and the longer you remain breathing in their eyes, the more civilians die each day."

Kenshin's eyes widened. "Saito. This one knows—"

"Do you?" Saito stalked back. "If you actually did what you purport to do — flip that mockery of a blade around and kill the scum who dare impersonate you — do you think there would be this many Battousais running around? This many hitokiris scattering calling cards like a free for all? Like a festival?!"

Saito scoffed. He looked at Kenshin like he could spit in his face.

Then he turned, and left. Kamoda trailed out after him with a weak apology. Kaoru and Megumi had gotten up, offended by the outburst; they watched them leave with troubled eyes. Sano still sat lazily, but his fists were suspiciously tensed.

As the guests cleared out, Eiji stayed. He came up to Kenshin and bowed deeply.

"Eiji!" Kenshin said, startled. "Please, there's no need."

"You mustn't blame Shishou." Eiji fiddled with his police cap. "He's just a little stressed. That's all." As soon as the words left his lips, Eiji realised how lame that excuse was. He shrunk a bit.

Kenshin just put a hand on his shoulder and smiled. "This one knows how that man is." He huffed. "You were there last night, weren't you? The bodies. I'm sorry you had to see that."

Eiji shrugged. "It's my job. I've been an apprentice to the police since I was fifteen. 'Sworn in when I was sixteen. Bad things like this happen sometimes. It's my job to help when they do happen…you know. So don't be sorry." Eiji scratched his head sheepishly, looking at Kenshin with reverent eyes.

"Just like your valiant brother," Kenshin smiled.

"Like my bro," Eiji agreed. "…and you."

Kenshin's smile faltered a little. But Eiji continued on as if he'd said nothing. "Besides…I was lucky I was there last night. I was the one who found the kid. The longer they're out there, the harder it is to record accurate evidence, get clues on what happened…she might only have been dead for thirty minutes…"

Kenshin's heart beat faster as he digested those words. "…Kid?"

"Yeah. Didn't Shishou tell you? The civilian victim was a child. Six years old…horrible."

* * *

**Notes.**

Again, Himura Miki's story is a slightly expanded version of SiriusFan13's 'In Due Time' and some of Hiko 12's dialogue comes from ch 5 of that story.

There's quite a few parallels between mentors and their students in this fic. Including Hiko 12 seeing the relationship between an old mentor and adult student in Okina and Aoshi. Will she and Miki end up like this? Spiteful and troubled...but also familial and sincere. Probably not. The Hiten Mitsurugi ryu won't let them live to that age. She doesn't think about it too much. In the manga, the fight between Hiko 13 and Kenshin is interspersed between the fight of Okina and Aoshi. That's always caught my attention, that these two parallel things were happening.

And then there's Kenshin watching Eiji and Saito in awe. Here is Eiji at 17 and he has this working relationship with Saito. Saito passed on his signature technique to Eiji and it's...like a footnote. They continued on. That perspective is just boggling him a bit. He can't even see Kaoru and Yahiko in that strict kind of way, they're family. Kaoru and Yahiko is like 'I taught you Kamiya Kasshin ryu, now please play with my child for me.'

I slipped in 'Aizu' as one of the factions Kenshin listed because I once read a fic that briefly placed Kenshin in the 'Kinmon incident' 1864 (meaning it was his first year on the job) and loved that idea. It's been my head canon ever since.


	8. Chapter 8

A refresher for Japanese terms:

_Kata_ is a 'set' of sword drills. _Gi_ is the style of shirt Kenshin and Hiko wear. _Hakama_ is the style of pants Kenshin wears. Hiko tucks his hakama into his boots. _Kabuki_ is traditional Japanese theatre. _Futon_ is a bed roll set on the floor. Whetstone - not Japanese, lol, but the stone you use to sharpen knives.

* * *

**1885**

**Kyoto**

The Aoiya's restaurant filled up within minutes, and streets were again loud and bustling as people streamed out of the buildings at lunch hour. Everything resumed as usual, the methodical inner workings of the city ticking on. As Saito exited the Aoiya he walked straight into alleys and gutters and lesser known side-streets, keen to avoid the crowds. He'd taken off his blue officer's coat in the heat, letting it drape loosely on his shoulders instead. The limp sleeves dangled restlessly at his sides.

Eiji, who'd been caught by a waitress and held there being lectured for running down halls, scrambled after him. Saito hadn't waited. Eiji rushed out just in time to catch Saito's blue uniform bob between speckles of kimono and yukatas in the distance.

He tailed him. Always ten steps behind, with a wall of chattering people between them. When Eiji finally caught up, Saito had led them to the far side of town. Dusty, unpaved streets lined with overgrown trees and green — much more quiet and peaceful, but also the long way back to the station. It was more practical to use the cluttered main streets; one could easily disappear into them, easy invisibility, but Saito had wanted privacy.

They walked in silence. Eiji tottered behind Saito. Five steps behind.

"…I told you not to call me 'Shishou' at work."

It was a reprimand. A slap on the wrist, a point to do better, but instead it slid out of him like an exhaled breath, tired and resigned more than anything resembling admonishment.

Eiji took it in stride, a short huff being the only indication of his knowing he was being rebuked, and without even a second of reflection he parried with, "There was no one there — only Kamoda." A childish lilt he didn't care to mask coated his voice. "He already knew."

There was no one there: meaning, there were no other _police_ there, no one to tattle back at the station, but that wasn't really true — they both knew police being there or not didn't matter — it was simply unprofessional. A slip-up. And slip-ups, Saito would not excuse.

"Kamoda knew." Saito didn't turn around. He just talked to the air in front of him as he walked. "What does Kamoda know. Kamoda is a _blithering fool_ who let our only suspect gallivant into the night like the _blithering fool _he is. I should have him scheduled in front of the firing squad."

Eiji was reduced to silence at that.

He just followed quietly, the sound of Saito's mistake ringing hard in the open space.

A slip-up.

Because they both knew that was not even vaguely in the realm of rational things to say; Saito didn't expect the likes of Kamoda to take a stand against Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth, known master of a master swordsman. If he did and became a puddle on the floor, Saito would be here right now reprimanding him for the opposite. _Stupid man. Should have waited for reinforcements. _

"And you," Saito started. "Remind me. Did I teach you the sword so you could pull a blade on a child in the middle of an inn, Mishima?" he said, completely hypocritically. And despite Eiji being the same age as Yahiko. But Eiji tastefully did not point this out.

"I knew it was too early to teach you the Gatotsu."

"Yet you did."

Saito stopped. He turned back, uniform whipping around him. Eiji stared at him with unbothered eyes.

Saito nodded, his head bobbing in an amused manner, up-down like a rattlesnake's tell.

"Is this insubordination?"

"No, Shishou. This is an intervention," Eiji said.

And without anything further, without fanfare, not even a rise in ki, Eiji went to his knees.

Saito peered down at him. "An intervention? You?"

"You don't listen to me when you get like this. I thought a grand, sweeping gesture might help, _Shishou."_ Eiji's words were rather acerbic, not unlike Saito himself. "And don't worry," he said, noting the pull in Saito's lip, "There's no one else here."

Saito laughed. It sounded like gravel scraping together, half-pack-a-day smoker's rasp. "Fine. I'll humour you, now that you've learned to bite the hand that commands you. Whatever have I done to displease you, Mishima?"

Eiji stayed on his knees, but he looked Saito starkly in the eyes with all the pomp he'd been poised to express days ago, building up like tar. But instead of anger, frustration, and instead of letting him have it, he side-stepped rebellion and only very carefully said—

"You're losing it, Shishou."

Saito reacted unfavourably to this comment.

His eyes narrowed into dangerous, offended slits, a positively murderous gaze on him, but Eiji took no notice of this, carrying on with that same tentative approach.

He said, his voice like a calm, still ocean, "You're not…well. You're not in control. You are not yourself, Shishou. You haven't been since…before Himura-san came to help. I didn't know how to break this to you before, but I've run out of options to run it by you discreetly. You need _sleep._ You need _food._ You got to get some rest." Eiji bowed his head to the floor. "Saito Shishou, you're in no condition to go back to the station."

"_You're in no condition to go back on the field."_

"_I can still fight."_

"_Fight? You're a liability like this."_

"_Vice-commander—"_

"_Control yourself in front of me, Yamaguchi."_

Saito's demeanour wavered a little. Something he realised only now he'd let get eggshell thin: fractured, and about to crumble. But Eiji, busy bowing, hadn't seen. Even if he had, nothing would have mattered. He'd have seen, filed it away, and tactfully kept it for his own future reference.

Saito looked at Eiji properly. He was almost eighteen. Almost at the age when Saito killed for the first time. No longer did he have the boyish cheeks or pimply forehead he'd sported not so long ago. His voice was level, almost disturbingly so — when they were alone Eiji had always been keen to make sure Saito knew exactly what he thought about a current case or a fellow police officer…

When did the kid get so…_in_ _control _of things? Saito always took the lead in their conversations and on the field, not Eiji. When had Saito _lost it,_ thrown his control behind him like a discarded cigarette butt.

Cigarettes.

Saito's hands shook to life, going for his pockets. It had been almost a day and a night and he realised all at once he was desperate to get a smoke. With some struggle, he pulled out a slip of paper. One of the calling cards. He rummaged in his coat some more, pulling out another calling card, and then another calling card, like some sad, feverish man, clawing for water in a desert. Like a weak, snared addict. Mad to get his fix. One of the cards slipped from his fingers and floated away on the wind. It was still police evidence. Saito reached out to snag it back. But it was too late for that.

Rather like how it had been too late for him to catch a crook, or to get to that girl in time. To screw on his logical head and go to meet Yamagata to play mind games. As he watched the evidence drift away into the air, a white speck of a dot in the sky, he thought with sudden, startling clarity that all of this — all of this seething anger was so absurd.

"Shishou?" Eiji muttered. He lifted his head ever so slightly, addressing Saito's shoes. "Shishou? Are you listening?"

Peace could truly be as deadly a thing as war.

Saito was irked over what? A few dead kids? A massacre or three? Saito Hajime had seen hundreds of people die. Hundreds had perished under his command. He was not like Battousai, he didn't have the luxury of vanishing after Toba-Fushimi, he kept fighting; fighting and fighting losing battles, fighting change, all to be in time to watch the world he fought for finally exhale and expire.

And now he was getting huffy over a few murders in the street? Feeling a bit under the weather?

Saito finally produced a cigarette, mangled from his pocket, and slid it between his lips. It was then he realised his lighter wasn't on him, and Eiji was staring. After another night of flipping through old records, he'd left his lighter at his desk. This being too pathetic to witness even for Eiji, he got up. From nowhere, he produced a lighter. He was quickly becoming Saito's devoted critic when it came to this vice; yet he still supplied himself with these things. Eiji clicked it alive, then held it dutifully up to Saito's cigarette. His eyes carefully lowered.

Saito took a long, comfortable drag. He took his time, wanting to make Eiji wait. But Eiji expected it and left him to stew in his silence. Saito blew out smoke, flitting the cigarette up and down his fingers.

"You're saying I'm unfit for duty." He grunted. "How very frank of you."

"When's the last time Shishou went back to the house?" Eiji crossed his arms, realised this was a defensive look, and then uncrossed them again. He looked him in the eyes. "…The lady of the house speaks about you, you know. She's always asking me about you…I have no gall to tell her the truth. And your sons—"

"—_The audacity!"_

Saito snapped. His ki spiked, a tea kettle whistling, a keg about to burst, accidental and blind; but as it did, the fire and anger rolled in on itself, dissipated again. He simply did not have the energy to get so worked up. An apathetic gloom took its place instead — the likes of which Saito had felt when his last superior handed over to him the Shinsengumi.

Smoke exited his mouth unevenly as he glared down at Eiji.

Eiji bowed his head. Not because he was sorry, but only because he wanted to placate Saito by letting him think he was sorry. When did the kid get this insufferable? And when did the kid start playing better mind games than Yamagata?

There was a small garden rail to the side, half collapsed from bad weather or timely wear. Saito went up to it and sat. Eiji followed his movements with his eyes like a hawk. He remained standing.

"She hates when I bring work home," Saito drawled. "Now here, is the kicker. All I have on my mind are murders, child trafficking, and _moles _in the police force."

Eiji's eyes widened a moment before settling back into professional blankness.

Saito took another drag. "Why do you think we've made this little progress. This little army of manslayers running wild. No leads. Disappeared evidence. Practically non-existent witnesses. These aren't professionals, Mishima. They're not _assassins. _These are common thugs, and I am running blind like a headless fowl. There are moles in the force, protecting the mob from the inside. Doing this alone makes me suspicious to Yamagata, who's been on my back for years. But I refuse to trust a police force that I know is laced with rot."

Saito sighed. He used a gloved hand to push his hair back into place. His bangs swayed in front of his eyes. "—And you think I am prepared to bring _that _with me back to the house?" Saito said lightly. "She can feel ki. None of this escapes her."

Eiji took this all in without the customary squirming Saito was met with most other officers.

"Permission to speak freely," Eiji said, and Saito gave him a very discontented look. As if he hadn't been speaking as freely as he'd wanted, with no decorum coming from a disciple to his master.

"…Granted," Saito said. He already knew he'd regret it.

"Murder and crime is always on your mind. It's kind of our job, Shishou. If you want it to be flowers and sugar on your mind when you go back to the house…By that logic, the lady will only see you when you're either concussed — or senile."

Saito almost burst a vein. He understood why Eiji chose to say this with his blessing — so _he_ could be responsible for it, and the deshi could wipe his hands clean. Crafty little fox. In a bygone era, any subordinate caught saying such ludicrous things would have had their tongue rightfully cut out. If someone had the gall to say the likes of this to Hijikata, they'd be awarded a dagger and the backroom to finish themselves.

"…The things I let you say to me," Saito huffed.

But Eiji gave him a look that quietly said, _the things I have to put up with you_.

Saito lifted himself off the wooden rails. "I'm going back to the office."

Eiji's expression tightened.

"To get the whetstone I favour. I practically ground my sword on that blunt excuse of one Himura holds, who knows what damage it did mine." He straightened, draping his uniform coolly on his shoulders again. "Meet me back at the house."

Eiji smiled. Without smugness. Without smirking. He just smiled serenely, dimples indenting his cheeks. "No, I'll come with you."

They walked side by side like that for a while.

After a few minutes of blissful silence, Eiji spun his head in his direction. "...So...Shishou..."

"Hm?"

"—Why did Himura-san attack you?"

* * *

**Mount Atago **

Lying upon the outskirts of Kyoto was a mountain.

Upon the mountain a group of friends and family made their journey in relative quiet, trekking far into the wilderness where no prying eyes ever went for fear of getting lost and stranded in labyrinth. Their guide, a red swordsman in the murk of green, feared not, because he knew the way like the lines on his hand.

When Kenshin was young, there had been stories: stories about evil spirits and angered deities that disappeared anyone who strayed from the overgrown path. They were not without truth. People _did_ disappear from these gnarled forest floors — people who were unfortunate enough to cross its longtime resident, bringing down swift death upon themselves. Years ago, forty bandits and slave traders died on this soil, and three young women rested here. This place was remote and unwelcoming, easy to get lost in, and frankly inhospitable; but little did anyone know, Kenshin had once lived here.

He'd called this place home once. He'd hunted in these woods. Ran wild. He'd grown up here, hidden in the bushes, isolated from the battles that raged on in the outside world until his illusion of peace and normalcy could no longer endure. Far away from the rest of the world, here, there had been only him, and Hiko. A half childhood spent training and fighting for a war Hiko would forbid him from joining. It reminded him of endless games of counting, one to one thousand; dipping his blisters in river water; and performing katas until he dropped.

That had been a long time ago. A very, very long time ago.

Kenshin sighed darkly. After everything that had happened with Saito, he'd still kept one glaring piece of information from him:

Kenshin knew _exactly_ where to find Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth.

Because, even surprising him, Hiko had never left the place Kenshin abandoned all those years ago. He was still here. On the same mountain. In the same clearing. Living in the same, rundown hut.

"Here we are," Kenshin said. "Mount Atago. The clearing on the east side. Six hundred steps from the river. Nearby the cliff."

It was the same as it ever was, like time had never passed: a varnished polaroid shot of a moment forever in stasis — and suddenly Kenshin was twenty eight coming back and begging at Hiko's feet for help — and he was also fourteen and hating every single detail of this godforsaken place, walking this same path out the door convinced he'd never come back.

His mind ran in circles, as if revisiting a botched past he'd never really thought too hard about. Like two very different versions of himself intersecting, reintegrating. Kenshin, a swordsman's disciple; and Kenshin, a husband to a dojo instructor: the middle conveniently missing. While his head was looping into knots his body moved on its own accord, casually curving branches out of their path, leisurely walking to lead the way — not an outward impression that anything was wrong.

"Oh," Megumi uttered as she took in the shack. "…So this is where Ken-san learned the sword?"

"Yes. That I did."

"…There's a little flower garden," she said pleasantly.

"Oh, that." Kenshin looked at a small collection of nearly drowned tulips she was referring to. "It's meant to be a vegetable garden. This one used to grow yams there, that I did."

It would have been selfish of Kenshin to keep this secret location hidden, to shield the likes of a murderer — if that murderer were not Hiko. Instead, he convinced himself he was saving the lives of countless officers by questioning Hiko in the safest way possible. By himself.

Or would have. If not for Kaoru, Sanosuke, Megumi and Yahiko all putting a death grip on him all the way up the mountain.

"_You think we're letting you go talk to that guy all alone? Think again!"_ _Sano had huffed. "Think about it this way, if something goes wrong, at least we'll have numbers." _

Kenshin was indeed thinking about that right now. If something were to go wrong, no matter how many numbers they had, there was always the possibility they could die in this place and fuel the Mount Atago superstitions. Having no idea why he let everyone come, and having no clue as to why he'd caved, Kenshin politely pushed back the branches to let Kaoru and Megumi pass unobstructed.

"Um," Kenshin started, biting the inside of his cheek. "So…this one's master is…er…what this lowly one means to say is that this one's master is not always…"

"A hobgoblin?" Sano said, swiping his nose. "Yeah, we're here to judge his morals, not his living state, Kenshin."

"What — no!" Kenshin turned to Sano defensively. "This one was trying to say, it's best for this one to ask the questions. Shishou can be…" He struggled to find the word.

"A dick," Sano offered.

"…Abrasive."

"An abrasive dick!"

"Oh shut up, Sanosuke." Megumi came between them. She pointed a finger and dug it into Sano's chest. "You're the one being a raging abrasive dick right now," she said sternly.

Megumi ignored the reddening faces of Kaoru, Kenshin and Yahiko around her. She turned back to Kenshin. "That's fine, Ken-san. It's not like we can't take a few mean words. I know what a master is like. Kaoru's met him before, she told me some things. What's the worst he can do?"

"_Kill a bunch of people, it seems,"_ Yahiko mumbled under his breath.

Sano kicked him in the ankle.

"Hey! You were the one getting growled at — what right do you have to—"

"Shhh, Yahiko, we're right outside his house," Kaoru reminded them all. Without further ado, she stalked around the house, creeping past the kiln. Kaoru peered into the windows, which were outfitted with straw curtains and couldn't keep out a whisper. "…I don't think anyone is home."

Startling them all to sudden, jumpy attention, Kenshin knocked on the door.

"Hello. Shishou, it is your deshi," he announced. "Himura Kenshin," he added, as if Hiko might have forgotten. "He has come to pay his respects."

There was no answer.

"Well, damn. He really isn't home. What now?" Yahiko stretched his arms over his head and yawned. "Guess we head back. Try again tomorrow."

But Kenshin put his elbow on the door, heaved in a breath, and forced it open with an uncomfortable sounding crack. He let himself in.

"…Ooookay. Maybe not." Yahiko followed him in.

"I don't know…isn't this breaking and entering? Should we wait outside?" Kaoru pried through the crack in the door. But after a minute she went inside too.

The inside of the house had changed the most. A rather cramped assortment of pottery sat on the shelves, which now lined every side of the walls. Even more than the last time Kenshin was here. There were ceramic creations hovering above the sanded cooking area, the sword stands, the drawers, the low writing table, and above the futon and animal hides. Little beige pots, sake cups, tea cups, incense holders, bowls, the odd plate lining each shelf…

Pots and ceramics everywhere.

"Woah." Sano spun around in a circle. "…Didn't know your old man was so into vases."

"He is '_Ni'itsu Kakunoshin.'" _Kenshin said, matter-of-fact. "A well-known name in the pottery industry."

"…Who would have known? Pretty talented guy."

"He always boasted he was a genius at everything he did."

Sano had spoken in a joking tone, but Kenshin sounded completely serious.

Sano picked up a few pots, eyeing the bottom. "Signed Ni'itsu. Made in 1885." He picked up another. "Made in 1885. Made in…1885. Made in — you guessed it —1885…damn, Hiko is busy, making all of these just this year."

Kaoru, who was perusing a pile of folded hides, bent to smooth her hand in the fur. "This is…I think this is a _wolf _hide."

"How opulent," Megumi said. "Those are expensive."

"No…I don't think he spent a penny on this. I think he skinned this himself."

"…Do you smell that?" Kenshin said softly.

A few confused heads turned his way. No one else seemed to be bothered.

He began to walk aimlessly around, searching for the suspicious scent, when he happened across a shelf of toy spinning tops.

Kenshin stopped brokenly in front of it, eyeing the carved spinning tops with disproportionate alarm. It brought back a memory he'd forgotten so long ago it seemed to put a cut into his very bones to remember. Hiko had made spinning tops like this once. A clay spinning top that he mashed into shape with his fingers, hardened over a candle and threw casually to Kenshin, who loved it so much he slept with it snugly beside his futon. He'd loved it so much he broke it within the month, then ran into the woods to cry about it discreetly. His shishou had to go out to find him and never realised why Kenshin had been so upset. Kenshin was harshly scolded and punished for running off like that. All over a badly made spinning top.

Then Hiko made more, this time carving them out of wood. One day in Choshu Ishin Shishi's Kohagi Inn hideout, Kenshin slipped into his pockets and pulled out a spinning top. After thinking he'd take nothing from his shishou when he left, he'd come to war with a spinning top. Of course, he placed it on the window sill and spun it. He used to spin it in the evenings, over and over, like a secret kata, clearing his head before a mission. He didn't remember what became of that thing.

Kenshin picked up one of the spinning tops from the shelf, staring at it.

A beat passed, and he quickly placed it down.

For a moment he was completely overcome by the fear he might break it in his hands, even though it was wooden.

Suddenly, Yahiko's voice cut off the rest of Kenshin's thought.

"Hey Kenshin, your ol' shishou is married?"

Kenshin spun on him. His mouth was open as if he couldn't even begin to dissect what was wrong with that question.

"…O…ro?…_No,_ Yahiko. He is _not._ Why — why did you ask that?" His brain flashed madly for a half a minute as he skimmed the premises for women's objects.

Yahiko nodded at the shelf in front of him. "Look. Aren't these San-san-kudo wedding cups?"

As Yahiko said it, everyone converged on the shelf and crowded around the cups.

San-san-kudo: Three-by-Three Exchange of Nuptial Cups. They were special ceremonial objects in a typical traditional wedding. Three small sake cups placed neatly upon one another from largest to smallest.

"Yes. Good eye. They are." Megumi picked one up. "Kaoru and Ken-san had something similar for their wedding." Her eyes lit up as she marvelled at the intricate paint. Like the other works, it was dated. "…Made in 1880."

The smallest cup represented the past, an offering of gratitude to the lucky couple's ancestors and parents for allowing their chance meeting. The medium cup represented the present, with the couple binding their energies to share a long life. The largest cup was the future, a wish for tranquility as one household from then on. With three drinks from all the nuptial cups, the couple exchanged sake of divine offerings, celebrating the union.

_Kaoru, knelt beside him in her white wedding kimono, smiled from beneath the arc of her ceremonial hat. "I drink to you, Kenshin." _

_Kenshin, his eyes creased in joy, lifted his cup in front of him. "I drink to you, Kaoru-dono." _

Kenshin vaguely understood why the cups had drawn Yahiko's attention. They were the only thing that was colourfully painted across all the beige pots and vases, and endlessly more intricate. The cups were lacquered in precious _maki-e_ style, painted with gold and silver dust. A touch of luxury. It was clear whoever had made these had spent triple the time on it than anything else. Kenshin didn't quite want to believe Hiko had made this, even through the glaring proof of it being in this remote ceramics workshop.

"Maybe it's a commission?" Kaoru mused.

Kenshin shook his head. "Unlikely. Shishou would have to speak to people to take commissions, that he would."

The last time he was here, Hiko had made it clear he simply carted his freelance pieces off to sellers in Kyoto and Osaka. After all, pottery was his answer to never having to see more human face than was strictly necessary. Kenshin didn't even entertain the idea he could have made them for himself. The man was a bachelor through and through.

Everyone shifted away from the wedding cups after they'd finished staring.

The smell Kenshin had caught before floated back to him, but this time he latched onto it. "…This one doesn't believe he is imagining this," he turned to Sano next to him. "Sano, do you smell that?"

Sano's easygoing demeanour wiped off him as he straightened and came alert. He stared at the empty room for what seemed like an age. Then his shoulders dropped again.

"Booze?" he said finally, slightly impressed at himself.

"No."

"Terracotta?" Kaoru started, noting the shelves of unset pottery.

"Not that."

"It smells like he hasn't aired this place for a century," Yahiko said snidely.

"Kinda," Sano nodded.

"It smells like blood," Megumi said.

The group froze in their places. Yahiko dropped the clay teacup he was holding and jerked violently forward to catch it in the same instance. He wasn't even in the mood to marvel at the fact that he'd caught it with his trained reflexes.

"No. No, it…" Sano trailed off. He looked at Kenshin before throwing up his hands and gesturing to the room. "Where?"

Both Kenshin and Megumi moved. As they wandered around, Megumi set her eyes on a burlap bag. She peeled it open, revealing a pair of black cloth boots. Steeped in blood. Also in the bag were a pair of dark hakama and leather vambraces. All speckled with blood.

"It's still wet," Megumi whispered.

"It's fresh." Kenshin thought back to the witness Kamoda's account. The facts had been airtight already. A performance of Kuzuryusen, a death that happened last night. Hiko had come back to the house to change out of his soiled clothes and rest before leaving again. Where had he gone? What was he doing right now?

As these questions unveiled themselves to Kenshin, like a Shinsengumi ambush along the street, more came at him.

What was Kenshin supposed to do right now? Wait for Hiko and ask a question he already knew the answer to? Ask him why he killed a yakuza so viciously?

Kenshin sighed.

He looked languidly at his friends as they muttered over the blood, speaking in raised voices, but Kenshin, hearing none of it, backed away. Slowly, he turned around, turned back, letting his legs carry him out of the house. Out of his childhood home. Out into the clearing.

Outside, the wind rustled the leaves. Birds were engaged in song, and the rushing river a way away could be heard distantly in the woods. To one side of the clearing was an unlit fireplace with a log for a seat. Kenshin used to sit there with Hiko, listening to his brief stories — always short tales with the barest of details and no embellishment. Everything told like it was. Momotaro was born from a peach. Sent by the gods to be a good son. A band of oni demons came. He killed them. The end.

When he got older the stories were replaced with poems. Cherry blossoms in Spring. Stars cover the sky in Summer. Full moon shines in Autumn, and in Winter the snow covers the ground. All these things make sake taste good. If it tastes bad, it's because there is something wrong with you.

Kenshin turned suddenly to the storehouse and shelter latched onto the side of the hut. He bypassed a pile of firewood with an apathetic kick and found exactly what he was looking for.

In the store were jugs and jugs of sake. Empty pots that Hiko made himself stood piled up in one corner, a few jugs of 'Osaka's best' shone in the low light. Store-bought. A number of jugs lined the back of the storage: homemade sake left to age. Kenshin, going through motions, picked one up. He popped off the stopper, brought the jug to his nose. It smelled as strong as Hiko liked it, and surprisingly sweet. Different from how he remembered but pleasantly fragrant. Hiko would always go on about how he hated Kyoto sake, even though Kenshin could not reliably taste a difference.

Hiko would also go on about how good he was as a killer. After Momotaro, he'd tell a tale about his younger days. One time, there was a band of brothers, stranded on the other side of the river. Hiko went to help them. When he realised all they wanted was to steal his sword, he killed them. The end. Another time, there was a band of thugs, harassing a fleeing husband and wife under a large tree. Hiko killed them. One thug ran for his life. He cut down the tree, killing them. End. This other time, there was a band of slave traders, who were attacked by a band of thugs. All the slaves were killed, except for a weak little boy. Hiko killed the thugs. He told the boy to get help from the village, but he was too stupid to do even that. _Oh, you were in that story, weren't you? Yes, yes, you're the boy. I forget. That's enough tales about yours truly for today. _

Kenshin lifted the sake to his mouth. But before he could take a drink, he stopped himself. His fingers curled until his knuckles whitened. Why had he stopped himself?

Because of the likes of a poem? Was he…_afraid?_ Afraid of what he might taste.

Kenshin's ki rose.

In a bout of anger, Kenshin tossed the sake to the ground.

It smashed at his feet, soaking his socks. After all that time jumping through mental hoops not to think about Hiko Seijuro, all his thoughts imploded: firecracker quick, gunpowder aflame. What was he _doing, _killing left and right? Killing gangsters or random people who couldn't touch him if they tried — not even if they had a hundred years to train and prepare. Mixing up the murders with whoever was leaving calling cards, making Kenshin the one who was guilty in the eyes of the world.

There were _so very many_ things wrong with Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth, Kenshin was astonished he could stomach all this sake.

Kenshin unsheathed the sakabatou, the lighting ring of battou-jutsu reverberating in the air. With one fell swoop he smashed apart six jugs into pieces. The sake exploded, going everywhere, wetting the firewood, sinking into the sand, terraforming the storage shelter into a sloppy, wet marsh; but before a drop could even land on Kenshin he'd swung again, shattering more jugs, creating a thousand more porcelain pieces, their seashell white shards riding down waves of pungent, store-bought sake. Kenshin swung again, breaking another. He swung again, breaking another. And again, shattering everything. He swung over and over—

"_Kenshin?!" _

Kaoru's voice. High and horrified. She ran up to him, running into the pool of sake in her nice shoes and floral kimono, steeping the hems.

"Oh…dear…" Kaoru started, "I know you're upset, Kenshin. And I'm…I'm sorry I doubted you. I didn't think Hiko could…" Kaoru shook her head. She tottered forward, pressed her hands into his back and hugged him tight.

"It seems this lowly one is…just a little upset, that he may be…" he said. "This lowly one didn't mean to run off…forgive me, Kaoru-dono…that he daringly asks."

Kenshin leaned into her. In his anger, he'd made it rain sake.

"Silly Kenshin," Kaoru said into his ear, and Kenshin dropped the sakabatou, freeing his hands to embrace Kaoru back. "Stupid Kenshin. You just hold onto me. Let out your anger, then let it float down the stream." She paused. "I know this isn't what you want."

"What I want..." Kenshin echoed. "It doesn't matter what I want. _Heh._ Upset? I don't get to be 'upset.' I didn't control myself. I acted out. I'm sorry, Kaoru-dono."

_"Acted out?_ It's just sake!" Kaoru shook her head. "...You deserve to be angry. This isn't—" She sighed, bone-deep, and squeezed her eyes shut. "We were happy. We were home. Safe. _Dry. _About to celebrate our son's birthday...I know this just — messes everything up! None of this — none of this is your fault! But people are blaming you for something they don't understand. For something you're not remotely responsible for. The injustice is, is, is — strangling _me _— never mind how you must feel. Of course you should be angry. Of course you should be upset!"

Kaoru punctuated her sentence with a kick to a bottle shard, sending it flying, shattering against the wall. _"Fuck!"_

Something she said struck Kenshin deep down. They were happy. They were home. They had Kenji. After everything — war and death and wandering — it felt like Kenshin had finally, finally discovered what peace might look like. And then that peace was taken away from him.

This entire time was like those few numb moments coming back to the hut in the woods — his mind spinning, deeply disturbed — but he had been acting as if nothing at all was wrong. Soldiering on because expressing discomfort was breaking form. Because anything else was being soft. And being soft...was unacceptable.

Kenshin let out the breath he'd been holding. Feeling like Kaoru had dragged his feelings out of his chest, feeling emboldened, he took two steps forward and grabbed her into a hug. Kaoru let him. She held him close, gripping his back, telling him he was hers, and she was here, and if Kenshin couldn't quite manage it himself, she'll be angry and upset _for_ him.

"We'll get through this." Kaoru pulled back a little, looking into his eyes. "We always do."

Kenshin smiled weakly. He just leaned into Kaoru, and glared at the horizon.

The very first time Kenshin had met his master, he'd watched him butcher nearly forty men in the time it took for his six year old self to push Miss Sakura's body off of him. Maybe that was the reason he was quite underwhelmed at his first kill. He'd seen it play out before — forty times in fact — and frankly, it looked easy.

* * *

**Notes**

_Ni'itsu Kakunoshin_ is the name Hiko goes by in his pottery trade. In RK, he was 'a rising star in the pottery industry.' Now he's 'a well-known name in the pottery industry.' ...Oh, Hiko.

Shoutout to FrostyEmma on ao3, who named Hiko's mountain as the real life _Mount Atago_ — much better than using 'the mountain' forever and ever.

I mentioned 'polaroid' photos in the fic, but the more accurate early photographs in this time are 'daguerreotypes.'

There's a tiny flashback to Saito calling someone 'Vice-commander.' If you haven't guessed, it's Hijikata Toshizo the second in command of the Shinsengumi. This particular bit happened when Saito was in the Mibu Roshigumi - the precursor to the Shinsengumi. (A refresher: it's the reason Saito and co were called the wolves of Mibu. Their taskforce originated in Mibu.)

About the fic - I said I was going to post what I got and end it there, but since I've started I've written new stuff. So, see how we go. Basically, back to normal fic status.


	9. Chapter 9

Some sad RK news. The two live action RK movies have been delayed until next year.

I expect you all to come back in a year and talk to me about the movies.

* * *

**In the Aoiya **

After taking two wrong turns on his way to the ninja inn, ambling about the afternoon crowds two-to-three heads taller than everyone else — uncomfortably visible and looking like confused livestock among a sea of pheasants — Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth strut into the Aoiya with completely unwarranted triumph.

Barely a minute had passed when the girl whom Hiko recognised as the one who burst into his house unannounced all those years ago scouted _him_ out of all the people coming to the inn, and she turned on him like fish to chum. She dropped the young kid's hand she was holding with enthusiasm, nearly bowling him over in the process.

"Good afternoon Sir! Welcome to the Aoiya Inn! You've just missed the music hours, today we had Nana and Tachibana on the shamisen — they'd probably be back tomorrow but—"

As she unleashed upon Hiko all the amenities of the inn, including what was on tonight's dinner menu, (funny thing, we have a slight rice shortage right now — _I know that sounds bad!_ But that's on us, total misfortune — so we're limiting it to two bowls per guest. Which is _heaps! _Who needs three bowls of rice? We _have _other food—) Hiko combed his mind to place her name. Was it…Misa? Misuo?

While the girl continued on with her lengthy welcome speech, Hiko pointedly tried not to lock eyes with the kid who'd finally waddled back to her side. A tiny, brown-haired boy with deep mahogany for eyes and a bird's nest for hair. He stared at Hiko with big, wide eyes. He seemed vaguely familiar, but Hiko didn't care to place his face. Before long, the kid's stare shifted from Hiko to what Hiko was wearing. Staring and staring. Hiko felt sized up.

In his experience, kids were just easily distracted by people in long cloaks; but it looked as if it was giving this boy physical pain to not tug the cloak.

Hiko backed away slowly.

"And we offer discounts for the onsen — it's just a street away. One week stay, baths for cheap, how's that?" the girl finished with a flourish.

"Kunoichi," Hiko said weakly, "Do you not remember me?"

The kunoichi straightened. Rather than continuing being the graceful host, she looked a little affronted that her facade had been pierced so easily. She put her hands on her hips, leaning to one side as she looked Hiko up and down.

"_Wh—_ you're Himura's master!" She all but shouted to the world, "Hiko Shi…Sen…_Hiko Senburo!"_

With that, she brazenly pulled his arm to lead him inside.

Hiko briefly let her before whipping his arm back to himself like a burn victim. "Hiko Seijuro. Thirteenth of my name," he corrected, a brow twitching once, twice. "I'm here to see—"

"—Himura!" she said sunnily. She leaned in. "It's Makimachi Misao, you remember me, clearly! Come right inside Hiko-san, I'll put on a pot of tea. Must be tired, all that walking up and down your mountain, right?" she said, as if Hiko was at an age where his legs were starting to fail him.

As Misao turned, she almost bowled over the kid again, but the kid rabbitted out of the way in the last second. Misao tripped. Hiko whipped out one hand, grabbing her by the scruff of her collar. A knee-jerk response. She regained balance in a quick breath. Hiko withdrew just as fast.

"Ahh! You little tyke!" Misao said to the kid. "Almost killed me again!"

"_Haha — ha!" _the kid giggled.

Misao bent, rubbing the boy on the head so hard the tangles would take hours to undo. Hiko looked away so he wouldn't feel the physical pain of having to watch.

"Ahh, almost forgot. Lil' tyke, say hi to Hiko Seijuro. Be polite!" she snapped.

The kid's head came angling to Hiko again. Hiko acknowledged him with a brief wave.

Obviously at the end of his self control, the kid came tentatively forward, looked up — and then curled a little hand around the hem of Hiko's cloak. Hiko felt the pin-prick tug before his head shot down in his direction. The kid's head vaulted up. He pursed his lips, testing Hiko's give, and Hiko didn't even frown or move, but mercifully, the kid let go of his cloak.

Hiko nodded a silent '_thanks'_ for leaving him alone.

"Kunoichi," Hiko started. "There's no need to announce me. I do not need to see the owner of the house."

"That's fine." Misao manoeuvred the kid between her legs so he wouldn't pounce on Hiko's cloak again. "Grandpa Okina is busy with another guest," she said, spewing out unnecessary things like there was no tomorrow. "We get all sorts of people around here — he's _way_ too busy entertaining his _new best friend._ The resident _woman samurai._ Well, you know — she still regards herself as one."

"An onna-bugeisha," Hiko said. A strange feeling came over him, that such a relic could still exist. "…How trifling. That there are people in this world who still stubbornly cling to the title of samurai years after it has been abolished." He scoffed. "Pitiful."

_And what about the people who went back to their old ways after the era had changed? _

Hiko shook the thought away.

"Kenshin," he said. "Summon me my former disciple, Kunoichi," Hiko said tersely, "I need to speak with him immediately."

Misao nodded. "C'mon." She gestured. "I'll set you up with a room first. Big Himura's not here right now."

Misao and the kid led Hiko to a lightly furnished room, where they both promptly made themselves at home. Misao sat across the tea table, grabbed the restless kid, and started bouncing him on her lap. Hiko sat opposite.

"Big Himura went out a while ago and hasn't come back, right, lil' tyke?" Misao said in a high pitched voice. "Said something about 'going up the mountain.' What other mountain can they be talking about other than yours?" She chuckled as if she'd shared a joke. "Looks like you just missed each other. Like a kabuki act! You're welcome to wait here, he'll probably be back soon."

Hiko's mind blanked.

Kenshin went to find him? Why?

The last time he went up Mount Atago was to petition Hiko to teach him Mitsurugi ryu's succession technique. A technique so fast, so godlike: if perfection existed it reared its head in the name of Amakakeru ryu no Hirameki. The ultimate stroke in an art of death. Even if by some miracle it was evaded, one could not escape its maw of physical air displacement. If performed right.

His deshi — _former deshi _— learned the technique without ever wanting to kill with it.

Hiko shut his eyes.

But Kenshin _had_ killed. That much was clear.

If hearsay was anything accurate, he'd killed over twenty times in the space of a few months. He'd killed ordinary people: shopkeepers. Teachers. Paper men. Dango sellers and such. If Kenshin hadn't the resolve to kill the likes of Shishio the crazed man with the flame sword and plot to bring down the government or what have you, surely the person who got his order wrong at the food stall deserved to live.

Hiko sighed, put a hand to his face. These thoughts, incoming waves of nausea, washed over him like knives to the back, and he felt himself not wanting to go against the current, to just slump with it. Maybe go to sleep and leave it all alone. Let whatever morbid curiosity that had poked its snout of its hole die. Retreat into the mountains and shut his door. Unknow these inconvenient truths, unmeet Kamiya Kaoru at the market, undisappoint himself with the endless wheel of woe that was reality; one he was far too well acquainted with, and would do well to leave him be. But alas. He could not. Hiko blocked out the sound of the kunoichi's neighbourly chatter, blocked out the sound of the kid's babbling, and entered into a half-meditative state with his eyes open.

Time to think.

Kenshin was not his deshi. Not anymore. He frankly didn't owe a thing to Hiko, and didn't have to take Hiko's opinions on his sloppy murders. But Hiko, so long as he lived, was the Thirteenth of his name.

_The conundrum:_

_Hiten Mitsurugi ryu is passed down for masters to wield their expertise in the name of their fellow man. There is a duty to this, to never kill under political flags; to never kill indiscriminately, for personal pleasure, for personal gain; to realise good and evil were never absolute; and you, the master, have the power — the ultimate power — to make that arbitrary judgment._

_If nothing is true, if nothing matters, then only principles do._

_Your duty, unto which your name is bestowed, is to safeguard the principles of Hiten Mitsurugi ryu._

_Kenshin had told Hiko: he had taken an oath. Now he had broken it. He had broken it over and over, not just dirtying himself and throwing ten years of repentance down the drain — ten long years of a lesson learned the hard way, as Hiko did — but soiling Hiten Mitsurugi ryu. And that, unfortunately, made it Hiko's problem._

As Hiko sat, dead like a statue, watching the Kunoichi entertain the kid, with nowhere to avert his eyes _—_ a thing in him registered that something didn't make sense.

If Kenshin had killed, why come looking for Hiko? Why come looking for someone who will be your adversary?

Did Kenshin come up his mountain looking for guidance — or an end?

As these questions walked into his head unannounced, like each of the baka's little friends into his house, Hiko thought. If Kenshin had soiled Mitsurugi ryu. If Kenshin had come for absolution. If Kenshin were in front of him right now. Could he, Thirteenth of his name, do his duty? Could he, Seijuro, honour his own oath?

_This is what I'm training you for. This is the entire point. If you can't do this, then why did I make you my deshi._

Hiko wanted to burst out laughing. All this internal juggling, this circus of philosophical nothings, and all he really needed to ask himself was if he could kill Kenshin or not. That was easy. Of course he could. Of course he could.

"OW! — _ow, ow_ — oh this was a bad idea." Misao, mid-bounce, lifted the kid off of her and plodded him down to the side. "Oh, that was a bad idea, _my stomach_…sorry kiddo, I'll order Omime to bounce you later."

Hiko cleared his throat. The lights blinked on behind his eyes, the physical world coming back into abject focus. "I thank you for your hospitality. I will stay until Himura arrives." Resigned, he raised his cup to take a sip of tea. "It's important you send him to me the moment he is back. Can you do that, Kunoichi?"

"I can do that." Misao grinned to the kid. "Isn't that right, Lil' Himura?"

Hiko's thoughts came to a halt.

This was not ideal, as he was still in the middle of drinking his tea. He choked on it, spluttered involuntarily, and ended up with water dribbling down his chin and a large wet patch on the front of his gi.

"_Woah_— Hiko-san, are you ok? Gosh, drink slowly!"

Hiko looked at the boy. A beam of sun sloped across the room, the day outside changing, and for the first time Hiko noticed how red the boy's hair was in this light. Suddenly, it all made stark sense. The round, pudgy face, the red-brown hair, the big, knowing eyes. He looked familiar because he looked like a boy he'd met in a massacre. Digging graves no one else would. Doing katas until he bled. Shouting at him in the snow.

Occupying a space in his mind, with the blasted audacity to remain there wedged like a nail in wood, hammered into his makeup until his stupid baka ways infected Hiko as well, getting under his skin until he couldn't get it out.

He looked like Kenshin younger than Hiko had ever known him.

"Wh—" Hiko coughed once, twice, clamouring to speak, "What's — _what _did you call the boy?"

Misao was so concerned with him choking on water she'd flown up before realising she couldn't help him unchoke on water; and while she was looking worried the kid stared at Hiko as if scandalised by his table manners. The kid crawled defensively back to Misao.

"…Lil'...Himura?" Misao squinted at the boy as if something might be wrong with him. "What's wrong? Kenji looks fine to me."

It was Hiko's turn to stare.

He stared and stared. Like an animal paralysed from fear. An insect caught in a web. Like a kid riveted at people in cloaks — his world tilting slightly on an axis while his interworks realigned itself, and he scrambled to do math in his head.

"…How old is he?" Hiko inquired, politely, as if his world view were not tectonic plates shifting.

"Hey, Kenji, how old are you? _Don't act so shy,_ you were such a chatterbox before. Go on, tell Hiko-san."

Kenji slid out of Misao's lap. With a formal bow, he said, "I'm gonna be four, Hiko-san."

Misao twisted her nose in thought. "Kenji, shouldn't you call him Hiko-sama? I mean, he's your pop's master."

The boy twisted in her direction. "But you call him -san."

"I call him -san cos he's not _my _master."

"Well he's not mine either."

"Ahh, Kenji! That's so rude! Gosh, you spend way too much time with Yahiko." Misao dove to mess up his hair again, and this time it did give Hiko a physical shiver as she fashioned it into a messy stack. All the muscle memory of attempting to tame Kenshin's hair with a tiny wooden comb came rushing back to Hiko all at once—

"Stop it!"

Hiko balked at himself as the words slipped past him.

Misao and Kenji turned to him with their brows raised.

"…It'll take hours to undo the tangles," he had to finish saying.

In the awkward pause, one of the other kunoichi burst into the room without announcing, eyes scanning for Misao. "Misao-sama!"

They noticed Hiko at the table and bowed jerkily. They hesitated to speak further.

"Omasu. Speak openly," Misao said. "Hiko-san's a friend. He's helped defend the Aoiya before."

"—It's our informant. We've been given new details," the ninja blurted. "Not a telegram this time. Detailed sources. With this, we can cross reference the information upon the police telegrams we've received…"

The air of the room changed as Misao got up. Kenji mirrored her, climbing to his feet. "Ah no, Lil' Himura. Big Sis' got work now."

"But Aun' Misao!" Kenji pouted.

She brushed four fingers through Kenji's hair, then gently pushed him back.

"Hiko-san," Misao said, "Look after Lil' Himura for a bit, okay? I won't be long. I'll come pick him up before Big Himura gets back! Whatever you do, don't let him outside. —Himura — _the big one _— said not to let him outside."

"…Wait. Kunoichi," Hiko strained, but Misao was already out the door. "Makimachi!"

The door shut behind her. Hiko turned back.

Kenji sat on the floor across the table from him, his eyes drifting hungrily to his cloak. Then back up to Hiko.

Hiko could not take his eyes off his red-brown hair. The unblemished left cheek. The air in the room went completely still, and it got so silent he thought he could hear a pin drop a mile away; Hiko was soon uncomfortably aware of the sound of his own heartbeat and the knowledge that he was stuck in a room with Himura Kenji. The knowledge that this boy was just as aware of his presence as he his. Strangers trapped in a train compartment, going nowhere.

Then Kenji's eyes flickered back to the cloak.

* * *

**Kyoto Police Headquarters**

As Eiji opened the door to the station, the talk and commotion inside crested up a moment before a large gust of wind upturned every loose piece of paper, sending everyone into a frenzy. Officers scrambled to catch case reports and witness statements out of the air. Meanwhile, the lieutenant Kagehisa and two others were occupied with dragging a man to the holding cells through the small crowd of bereaved citizens. Kamoda, who had made it back first, was calming down a crying man.

No one was paying attention to the woman currently half-over the reception desk, hollering, "Can anyone help me?! I know my children have only been missing for a few days — _I know_ — I know others have it much worse — but please! I just want some information! Doa! Rin! Their names are Isaku Doa and Rin! Who's the officer on the case? I want to speak with them. Please just let me—"

Eiji stiffened at the sight of her. Discreetly, he pulled Saito's attention and made a quick hand sign towards the floor. Saito breathed out smoke. The family of the victim. What perfect timing.

Saito approached her. "Ma'am. I understand that you are here regarding a missing persons case?"

"What do you think you're doing?!" An officer grabbed Saito's shoulder, forcing him back to face them. "We don't just give…"

As soon as they saw who it was they'd just grabbed, they trailed off. The officer backed away slowly. "Commissioner…excuse me."

This prompted the woman to turn to Saito with renewed vigour. "Yes. Help me. I'm Isaku Iriya. My two daughters went missing at the memorial park…I left them alone for a second and they…" She cut herself off. "Isaku Doa. Isaku Rin. I know you're busy, _I know, I know,_ but I want—"

"You require information on your children's case. I understand. Please, if you'll wait a while, I will be with you presently. There is urgent news you must know." Saito bowed politely.

Iriya did the same, calming down greatly. "I…Yes…of course. Yes."

"I will be with you as soon as I can. Excuse me."

As soon as Saito rounded the corner he took a puff of his cigarette. No one bothered to rip their eyes from their work, allowing Saito to walk almost twenty steps down the corridor before a slew of men realised, and jumped on him like flies to decay. They careened in front, viciously blocking the path.

"Commissioner!"

"Fujita-sama, listen…"

Saito smoked. "I am listening," he looked between the three of them. "I should like to listen to why you are blocking my way to my office, Kagehisa, Sou, Takano."

"Commissioner," Lieutenant Kagehisa gestured largely, blinking and unblinking as if he were afraid Saito would disappear from right in front of him. _"Wh_—Where were you all morning?! We sent Mishima looking for you! —Your meeting with Yamagata-sama!"

"My meeting with Yamagata is none of your concern. Why don't you stick to your schedule and keep your nose out of mine." He tipped his cigarette in the air. "Out of the way, Sou."

Officer Sou pointedly did not get out of the way. "Fujita-sama…Sir Yamagata isn't happy with you…"

"Any new developments?" He angled his head a little so as to not blow smoke in their faces. "Now get out of my way. Or I'll get Mishima to do it for me."

Saito pushed past Officer Sou. Kagehisa actually reached out, attempting to stop him again, "Wait, Commissioner!—You don't want to go in there!" but this caused Eiji to step in, pushing him back with a stony face that said this was the last thing he wanted to do right now.

_"Fujita-sama—"_

_"Don't go in there, Commissioner!"_

At the end of the corridor, Officer Takano gave Saito an apologetic look. "Just be careful." Takano opened the double doors.

Inside Saito's office, behind Saito's desk, was Yamagata Arimoto. He scrunched at the morning paper splayed out in front of him, squinting slightly. Yamagata didn't look up when Saito stepped into the room. He seemed to be tracing the small print with one monocled eye, completely engrossed in the side columns.

Saito's eyes flickered to the side. His documents had been moved. A few books seemed to have been reshelved to precision. The pile of paperwork from the desk had been shifted onto the floor to make space, and his trash bin was suspiciously empty. Even his ashtray had been cleaned out. Saito took a long, hard drag. He stood still while Yamagata sat.

After a while, Yamagata spoke.

"Forgive me for not announcing my arrival." His voice was polite and level. "I did not wish to intrude upon your work. You are busy. I thought, instead of you coming to my office, I should simply accommodate and meet you in yours."

"How generous of you." After another drag, Saito took one of the guest seats. "What do you want?"

"Fujita, please. Not even a greeting?"

So that was how he wanted to play it. Saito removed his sword from his belt, set it leaning on the desk. He dragged his ashtray across the table, lightly tipping his cigarette. Then he placed his gloved hands upon the table, and bowed his head. "Good afternoon, Sir Yamagata. Kindly, what has you so incensed you had to grace me with your ire directly."

"Good of you to ask, Fujita." With that, Yamagata flipped up his newspaper, revealing the scrunched up title. _Battousai Kills Again._ Pulpy. Saito narrowed his eyes to read the fine print. He hadn't seen this one yet. Maybe they had finally come up with something new to say about Battousai that was worth lying about. _Two more dead in one night — sources describe "complete dismemberment" — first confirmed child fatality attributed to the Hitokiri Battousai — claims of cannibalism are vin—_

"What do you say to this?" Yamagata inquired.

Saito stewed in his thought. "Does it matter what I have to say? You have already decided whether to renew or dismiss me. Your verdict will not change, no matter what I have to say about the false Battousais."

_"False_ Battousai?" Yamagata repeated. The colour in his face rose steadily as he leaned across the desk. "You were the one who identified Battousai's work the first time. Have you forgotten? You were the one who swore your life upon it!" he snapped. "Why has that song changed?"

Saito shook his head. Yamagata, as stiff as he was, was still under the impression the two separate killings were the same.

"Not Battousai's work," Saito said. "Just his sword style. That, I _swore."_ His eyes flickered up. "The case has progressed. There is a difference. Not many can tell."

"And you are the only one who can?" Yamagata leaned back, sighing gravely. "That is no longer good enough, Fujita. We cannot rely on the musings of one man. Even if they come from the likes of you."

Saito laughed shortly. "The likes of me. Quaint of you to put it that way…" he said, and Yamagata bristled. "Rest assured, Yamagata-san. I have leads to the killers. One will pan out fairly soon, once I outline a course of action." He regarded him earnestly. "The killers will be caught."

"Yes. He will be." Yamagata folded his hands in front of him with an air of finality. "You have contacted Himura Battousai. He is in the city as we speak. I am aware."

Saito rose in his seat. His face set like flint.

How did Yamagata know? Who was his source? Which of the men had barked? —But _no,_ none of them knew Himura as the true Battousai...this truth could not be relayed through flittings of orders. Caught red-handed, and owning up to it without so much as a flinch, Saito removed his cigarette to speak — but Yamagata put up his hand, flickering away whatever half hearted explanation he had yet to come up with. He was apparently not here to chide him. Things were beyond that now.

"The time has come…Battousai was always a loose thread to the Choshu. And now look. There is no one else who can be responsible for this than he."

"Answer my question," Saito said. "What. Do you want."

"I want you to arrest him."

Saito stared at Yamagata as if he had spoken gibberish. In his mind the cogs were turning backwards, ticking at high speed, and Saito caught himself wondering if Yamagata had been this much a moron the entire time, or he'd simply slipped into it the more cosy he got behind a desk all these years. It alarmed him greatly, if perhaps he _had_ been this much a moron all this time, and Saito was equally as thick to have failed to see the full extent of it.

Of all the Ishin Shishi turned politicians he could have lost a war to align himself with, why did it have to be this one? Sometimes, in deep, dark moments, when Yamagata wanted him to arrest the wrong fool, Saito wished Okubo didn't get stabbed thirty eight times.

"…I'm not arresting…" he enunciated, as if to a child, "…a man for murder…if they did not…do the murders," he finished with some trouble.

Yamagata beat a fist onto the table, causing the ashtray, and every pen on Saito's desk, to jump. A thin layer of ash powdered the air. "This is an order. Will you arrest him or not?"

"Will I facilitate a miscarriage of justice? No."

A muscle in Yamagata's lip leaped, and he quivered with the slighted indignance of fledgling new age aristocracy. "You are forgetting yourself. Let me remind you, you are not Saito Hajime anymore; you are not a dog of Mibu. You are _Fujita Goro_ and you work for the _Meiji government._ I bid you understand what I am saying, Fujita. You are right in that circumstances have changed. These serial killings each day are breaking down society. People are in fear, hysteria. The government must be seen to be doing something, or civil society will collapse...as it has before in this city. We — _cannot_ afford that. An arrest must be made in order to quell the hysteria."

Yamagata spoke feverishly-quick. As if he were voicing every thought that was arriving in his head, trying so dutifully to convince himself in the process.

"Himura Battousai remains the prime suspect — you will do well to arrest him."

"So what you did to Shishio...you would do now to Himura?" Saito said lightly.

Yamagata reddened even more. "That is not what I meant. Those were not my words, do not twist it."

"I know nothing," Saito said. "Like your reminder, I don't exist beyond this uniform, this post." Taking another puff of his cigarette, Saito sighed. "All I know is that Himura Battousai was not physically in the city. And has a thousand and one alibis in Tokyo ready to be taken. All it takes is a letter to their Metropolitan Police and—" Saito trailed off. Cigarette smoke rose up in a single straight line as he paused, stock-still. "…The letter. That's how you know. You intercepted my letter. Ah."

_Three years ago, Saito had been pulled from his post in Sapporo, Hokkaido. It was his last undercover mission, tracing a line of illegal weapons manufacture deep into the mountains. Before then, it was Nagoya, hunting down particularly dangerous death row prisoners. Before then, Sendai, slipping between the ranks of a terrorist militia. Each time, he disappeared into the bushes for long months, leaving a dapple of bodies in his wake. But the illegal weapons were found, the death row prisoners dealt with, the terrorist militia destroyed._

_Each time, his new handler Yamagata worried not that he would fail the mission, but that he would fail to resurface. Saito's methods had been too much of a loose canon for him, who wanted complete control. Ever afraid to produce another Shishio, Fujita Goro's name was officially written into existence, placed into the general force as Commissioner in Kyoto. There, they could keep him in the light. Puppet him as they so wished. Plant him at a desk._

_Saito understood this. Saito understood all of this flagrantly; his own government did not trust him, a traitorous dog, a venomous snake, working for the winners of the war he lost. _

_He did not care. __Aku, Soku, Zan. __So long as he could continue exacting justice, his justice — the only justice he knew — he did not care what uses Yamagata and the others found for him._

Saito straightened up, took one last drag of cigarette, then stubbed it out. There was really no point flitting around corners with Yamagata. He no longer felt the need to explain anything. So he wanted a stage trial, an arrest for the sake of appearances…even more crass than Saito would have imagined. Bowing to the slightest bit of pressure for an arrest — _any arrest_ — was why the government could be so laughable.

Saito sat openly, regarding Yamagata in a casual manner. He was not invested in this conversation. "So you want to arrest Himura. I understand. I'll put out the warrant. —Kagehisa!"

The lieutenant, who burst through the doors and reacted far too quickly to the command, came to attention. He bowed to Yamagata then Saito respectively.

"Lift the suspension on Hitokiri Battousai's arrest warrant. 'Himura Kenshin. To be arrested on sight.'"

Lieutenant Kagehisa's brows furrowed. He looked between Saito and Yamagata, then blanked his face. "Understood, Commissioner Fujita. Sir Yamagata." He left as quickly as he came.

Saito turned to Yamagata. "There. Wishes fulfilled," he said. As if his order were a child's whim, and he, as ever, was happy to indulge.

Yamagata soured. "Do not try to stall. You know what must be done. I command you to apprehend Himura _now."_

"And how am I supposed to do that?" he said flatly. "You think Himura would let me know his whereabouts? What are we, good chums?" Saito ran a hand through his hair, slicking back a few loose bangs, smiling serenely all the while. "Am I to voodoo his whereabouts? Am I to consult a shaman? Perhaps I should pen another letter, post an invitation in the papers, then wait for hook, line and sinker."

_"Enough, Saito!"_

"On the contrary," Saito said, getting up. "Saito doesn't exist."

Saito watched Yamagata loudly get up, rustling the newspapers and documents. He looked at Saito with narrowed, angry eyes. Then he stormed out of his office.

Saito resumed his seat at his desk, surveying how his things and files and trash had been messed with. After a minute, Kagehisa, Sou, Takano and Eiji wormed their way to his door.

"Fujita-sama?"

"…Just get in."

Takano went up to his desk and leaned over the guest seat. "…We really putting out the warrant for that Himura guy?"

"Yes."

Takano grinned wryly, shrugging like these politics were beyond him. " 'Kay."

"…It doesn't matter. The police force sorely lacks that which makes it possible to 'arrest' Himura. Just expect to give medical leave for anyone who actually tries."

As his own words sunk in, absurd and alien, Saito sighed and pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. All this ludicrous nonsense, these empty, bureaucratic rituals that would only get in the way of the real investigation. And for what? The police play-acting at catching killers?

"Dismissed," he said, and everyone cleared out. But as everyone left Eiji stayed behind.

Eiji, looking dissatisfied, said nothing.

Right. The whetstone. Saito didn't even remember where he put it…never mind. Never mind.

"You can go back to the house today," Saito said. "My work isn't over."

Eiji looked down. "No, Commissioner. It never is."

Saito moved his pile of confiscated pistols into a cabinet, removed sketches and photographs of bloody bodies lying out in the open. Then he moved the newspaper out of sight _—dicated? — joint candlelight vigil for children and victims deemed illegal, no council permission given — talks of curfew arise — last city-wide curfew reportedly occurred during Bakumatsu for, quote, "the exact same reasons."_

Saito wiped a sleeve over the powder of ash on the tabletop. He buttoned up his uniform, glancing in the reflection of the window. His hair was getting a bit long. Nothing he could do about that now. He ran another hand in to slick it back.

One hand on his hip, he spun around the room, scanning for anything else that might be upsetting.

"Send in Isaku Iriya on your way out."

* * *

**Notes**

Thank you to **Ankesenpaaten** on discord who helped me remove a mention of radio that was not accurate to this time. Telegrams which were relayed through telegraph lines was the main mode of communication. Radio only became widespread around 1920s. Under Misao's leadership, the Aoiya has tapped into the telegraph system. Technology is advancing. They have adapted their espionage. The use of informants is also a thing.

Also thanks to **FrostyEmma** who beta read this chapter :)

Saito's 'Commissioner' rank means he's the boss of Prefectural Police Headquarters. He's the top cop of an entire prefecture: Kyoto.

Above him is Commissioner General, the boss of national police - I had Yamagata Arimoto step in as the face of the state after that. You might remember Yamagata as the statesman who had been trying to track Kenshin and briefly asked him to join the Meiji government's military (since he was the chief of the military). In the first live action RK movie, Yamagata was the man who holds Kenshin's hands in his his and goes, "use the strength in these hands again for us." He was also portrayed as Saito's boss in that one. (I suspect that Saito also has a hard time working with him because...Yamagata was Choshu. His former Meiji superiors Okubo and Kawaji were Satsuma...)

*clicks fingers*

Now to do everything I can to thwart ffnet link ban to show you guys visuals I drew for Hiko 12 and Hiko 13. If you cannot copy paste on computer/laptop, you can on phone.

**First one: (put the link together) **

earl-of-221b (fullstop) tumblr (fullstop) com

/post/617708702296899584/time-to-draw-my-twelfth-knight-rk-fanfic-oc

**Second one:**

earl-of-221b (fullstop) tumblr (fullstop) com

/post/619357025320730624/the-two-hikos

**Third one:**

earl-of-221b (fullstop) tumblr (fullstop) com

/post/621056688048504833/hiko-13

This note will be up for limited time, lol. Or search up 'Twelfth Knight' in the tags of my tumblr: earl-of-221b.

Thank you for all your kind comments. I love to hear what you have to say about the fic and talk back at you. We're going to be in the Aoiya for one more chapter before things start to heat up and the groups can start colliding.


	10. Chapter 10

**Note**

I remembered that Hiko specifically not liking Kyoto sake despite living in Kyoto is a trait I got from SiriusFan13's rk fic verse. So kudos to them again! Thanks to FrostyEmma who took a look a draft of this chapter all the way in May.

This will probably be the last chapter of this fic for this year before I resume posting in 2021. But it is a super long one at 8000 words!

* * *

**In the Aoiya**

Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth sat across the table from Kenji. At the start, the boy made an effort to be polite, sitting still, hands to himself, but his big watchful eyes staring at Hiko's cloak and his little curling and uncurling fingers flagrantly gave him away. Soon he started fidgeting, humming a little tune. After a while, Hiko made out the tune as teru-teru-bozu. A children's song to bring sunshine so they could go out to play. Kenji hummed and hummed. Until he started to sing.

_"Teru-teru-bozu, teru bozu_

_Ashita tenki ni shite o-kure.._

_Do make tomorrow a sunny day_

_Like the sky in a dream sometime_

_If it's sunny I'll give you a golden bell_

_But if it's cloudy and I find you crying _

_Then I shall snip snip! Your head off…"_

Locking eyes with the boy, gripped and flummoxed, Hiko realised he was way too sober. He twisted to the side, groping for Osaka's Best. But he just grasped at nothing. Because he decided this morning he needed a clear head today and deliberately did not bring any sake.

That one was on him.

After more moments of sitting and singing, Kenji finally worked up the courage to come up and grab Hiko's cloak. But Hiko reached out, lighting fast, one palm shielding himself from the grasping claw of Kenji's.

"I don't think so. Take a seat."

His hands were so small compared to Hiko's.

Kenji frowned and plodded back. But his spirits recovered quickly as he started singing again. "Teru-teru-bozu, teru-bozu…" over and over…until Hiko got sick of it.

"You realise it is not raining right now. It's been sunny all day."

Kenji stopped and stared. He got up, puttered to the window, and stared quizzically out. It occurred to Hiko that Kenji did not know the background behind the folk song — a vague threat for clear skies — he just liked the tune.

Kenji looked past his shoulder back to Hiko. "Then why can't I go out?"

Hiko raised a brow. "Did you not hear what your handler said?

"…Want to go out."

"Your father is not back yet."

"But I—

"—Have a grievance? Take it up with him."

The boy pouted. "Papa would'n let me go with him. That's why I'm with Aun' Misao."

A muscle twitched furiously in Hiko's lip, and he was lucky there was no one in the room to see it. Just what on earth was he to say to that? Why didn't the baka deshi just take the baka kid with him?

…Because the baka deshi was on his way to see none other than Hiko himself.

The way Misao had acted was as if Hiko had known about Kenji all along. All she did was make a poor assumption. After a minute's reflection, Hiko was not surprised. Kenshin would not tell him about a son. Why should he? No longer his disciple, he had no reason to prattle about the goings on in his life to the likes of a potter. It might have simply never crossed his mind to tell Hiko about a son. Even Kaoru did not tell him.

And that was fine. Because none of this was any of his business.

Kenji had grown tired of going on his tiptoes to look out the window. He soon flopped back on the floor, legs informally splayed, singing his song again._ "Teru-teru-bozu, teru-bozu…"_

After a few more minutes of repeating the same two lines of the song, Hiko got antsy. "Enough. How about I tell you a story."

Kenji's mumbling took a dip. Mercifully, he stopped singing. "What story?"

"The story about teru-teru-bozu."

"…'Kay."

"…Okay. As you know, 'teru' is sunshine. 'Bozu' is monk. There once was a monk. He lived in a village. He made a promise to the villagers to stop the rain. So rain wouldn't ruin the crops. He prayed for sun. But no sun came. He failed. He was executed. The end."

Kenji blinked.

"And that is the story behind teru-teru-bozu. When you 'snip off the head,' that is the end of the monk."

Kenji blinked. Again and again. Then his mouth cracked wide, he rolled back into the floor, and he started — started _wailing._

The line of Hiko's lip went slack flat. "What is wrong? Baka deshi's son—" Hiko cringed at himself. _"Former _deshi's son. What is wrong?"

All of a sudden, as if Hiko had opened the floodgates, Kenji began bawling. _"Ahhhh…he…he died!" _

"Yes. He died," Hiko said, matter of fact. He crossed his arms tightly. "That was what you were singing about."

_"Ahhh!"_

"Stop."

_"AHHH!"_

"…Stop this! Your father never cried. Your father entered my tutelage when he was _six_, and he never cried."

_"AHHHHHH!"_

Hiko balked. He was startled a noise that loud could come out of a boy that small. Was that normal? Hiko's eyes darted around the room, looking at the walls as if someone would burst in and catch him redhanded for story telling crimes. He looked pointedly at the teapot as if its poor shape and un-ergonomic design had suddenly become the most riveting thing in the world. He stared anywhere but at Kenji's scrunched up little face, which was in the middle of crying so hard rivulets of water actually streamed down his little puffy cheeks.

_Fine job, Seijuro. Absolutely splendid._ Why did he have to stop him from singing? This was so much worse. Why did Hiko have to tell that cursed story? Stupid sunshine. Stupid villagers. _And stupid monk._

For the longest few minutes of his life, Hiko sat defeatedly across the room as Kenji howled. Sitting there, pondering on his words, he was the most powerless man in the world. Children cried in the market place sometimes. When he had to resort to going into town he always walked past with a faint sense of disgust. Now he was on the receiving end of that.

Why was he so…vexed by the singing? Kenshin had never done that. Kenshin had been a quiet, withdrawn boy; serenely obedient, calmly reserved, and when he'd grown to become angry and defiant — he had always been menaced by a deep, riled something lying beneath a surface of youth — he still held a stranglehold over his emotions. Kenshin had rarely ever cried. And if he did, it was far away from Hiko's view, with only slightly red eyes and a blushed face to show.

After a long, hard moment, Hiko sighed. Hiko caught Kenji's eyes, dark like his mother's, with a motion of fingers. Then he lifted his cloak. Kenji continued to whimper, mourning for a non-existent monk who had died at least centuries ago. But he slowly puttered forward with his arms outstretched, then grabbed onto the cloak like a lifeline. He calmed down. After that moment of satisfaction, one tiny but surely undeniable victory, Kenji tugged on it with a rather satisfied smile.

"You like the cloak, do you?"

"Hnm…"

"You have a good eye. This cloak is over a hundred years old. A great mantel of my line."

Hiko's brow furrowed a bit as he heard his own words fill up the suddenly quiet space. Like he was remembering a thing he'd always known, yet never really thought much about. A reoccurring dream that had come by his sleep once again. A light in the dark. A campfire in a hot night.

_Red lapels, denoting strength and sacrifice. Weights, denoting control and duty…_Or something like that.

Hiko lifted his cloak. He smoothed down the collar. "It was worn by my master. The Twelfth. By her master, the Eleventh. And…_oh._ So on. You get the picture."

He wasn't really sure he did, but Kenji nodded sagely.

As Kenji held onto the hem of the cloak with a death grip, Hiko reached into his gi, fumbling around for his rag. It was something he always had on him, a small square of cloth used to clean the blood off his sword should the situation ever come up. Pulling out the rag, he mashed it to Kenji's face, wiping it like he would a table. Kenji didn't pull away, so Hiko took that as an opening to try fix his hair as well. Misao had done a number on it, but Hiko didn't have a comb on him. The best he could do was smooth it out with his fingers.

"There." Hiko grunted. "Presentable."

Kenji nodded. With no warning, he spun around, wrapped Hiko's cloak around himself, and then curled up next to his knee as if it were a blanket. Hiko resisted the urge to tug his cloak back like a tablecloth beneath a dinner set.

"Stop that," he said. "Only a master of Hiten Mitsurugi ryu is qualified to wear this cloak."

"…Mit—Mitsugi ryu…is Papa's," Kenji said. But his babble died down. He said, looking straight in Hiko's eyes, into his soul, with startling clarity and conviction, "That's Papa's style."

"Yes. It is," Hiko said. "He may be qualified to wear this cloak. Not you."

Kenji soured. His little face scrunched up. As if standing his ground, he lounged at Hiko's knee with his cloak snug like a futon.

"…Fine. I'll make an exception today. On one condition."

Kenji looked up accommodatingly.

"You tell nobody about what happened here." Hiko frowned. That was too revealing. "—Or you will end up like the monk."

Kenji's eyes flashed with some alarm. He withdrew into the cloak. Hiko regretted this immediately.

But in a moment of quiet it was forgotten, his fear shaken off as easy as it had come. Kenji had caught his eye on the thing fastened to Hiko's belt, which seemed to shine out to him like a moon in the night. All at once, the cloak was forgotten, the monk was forgotten, and all manners were forgotten as well as Kenji wriggled forward to grab onto the sheath of a sword.

"Katana," Kenji said.

Hiko's eyes snapped to the side, staring daggers down at Kenji. He pushed his little hand away with two carefully placed fingers. "Hands to yourself. Lest you lose them."

But instead of being rebuked, Kenji's lips turned petulantly up. Hiko frowned. One measly little triumph, and he could no longer be swayed. That was apparently all it took for Kenji to realise Hiko was the same as everyone else. All he spouted were empty threats.

"Katana," Kenji reached for the sword again, "I want to see."

Hiko looked down on him with disdain. "No."

"Please?"

"I said no."

"But I wanna."

"Why? Do you not live in a dojo?" Hiko snapped. "Do you not see swords every day?"

At that, Kenji's face twisted again. This time into a bitter frown. The kind of frown someone gave to their killer before offing themselves to save them the satisfaction; Hiko knew this look.

"…They always practice with swords…Papa carries one all th' time…but he never lets me have a go." Kenji made a dissatisfied noise in his throat, then knocked a fat fist on Hiko's knee. "…Never lets Kenji see sakabatou. But he get's to carry it everywhere. Even in restaurants!"

Hiko watched this with an air of silent entertainment. When the boy was angry, he looked damn like Kenshin.

Hiko leaned into Kenji with a deadpan air. "Do I _look_ like your father?"

Hiko pulled the sword from his belt. He set it down on his knees, angling himself to give Kenji the best view. With one smooth motion, Hiko drew it, eliciting a high, pleasing ring. It was a shirasaya sword, sheathed in wood. At first glance its plain, undecorated wooden mounting made it seem bland and common. But the blade itself could never be overshadowed by the plain casing.

Hiko's sword was _beautiful. _It was the cream of the crop, a legendary make by masters already lost to time; to compare this to the sakabatou was like comparing gold dust to sand, silk to twine. Even a common eye or lesser man could tell this sword was exquisite, even if they could not quite voice why. Kenji's eyes widened, and he gazed hungrily. Wherever the light hit the sword right there was a faint blue glint that gave the illusion of a glow. It radiated cold.

Hiko cut it slowly through the air, showing the engraving upon the _habaki_ near the hilt of the blade.

"This is Winter Moon."

"…Winter Moon…" Kenji echoed.

"Yes, former deshi's son. Tamahagane steel. Perfect balance." He ran two fingers up the blade. "And perfect curve. The original hilt and sheath are long dust. Probably withered in time. Its accompanying wakizashi, also gone. But this blade?" Hiko boasted. "This blade is still the same one that Hiko Seijuro, First of his name, had used to raze the entirety of Nagumo Domain to the ground."

Kenji nodded in reverence. As if he understood a semblance of what Hiko had just said. He leaned in, an eager curator of swords.

"Is it…sharp?"

Hiko smirked. "What does the former deshi's son think?" He straightened up in his seat, Winter Moon before his face. His eye reflected back to him like a still lake. Then, as slowly as he could manage to keep within a child's level of visibility, he swiped Winter Moon horizontally through the teapot upon the table. It came away clean and easy. Like cutting cake. Hiko reached out and picked up the halved teapot as if it were just a loose lid. Tea gushed out from the sides like a little fountain.

Kenji's mouth fell open, a soap bubble popping. Deeply impressed. _"—That's sharp." _

"Indeed."

Kenji scooted close, grabbing fistfuls of Hiko's clothes. Hiko, decidedly, did not expect that. Taken aback by his forwardness, he actually flinched. Hiko leaned pointedly away. But that seemed oddly to encourage Kenji into leaning in, climbing him like a rock face.

"Can Kenji…hold it?"

With all the imperious certainty of thirteen generations of masters, Hiko gave a look that said, _what do you think. _

As Kenji read Hiko's expression, his own one fell. Kenji slid off Hiko's knee.

But before he could completely deflate, Hiko grunted. "Ask me again."

"…Huh?"

"Ask me again."

"…Can Kenji hold your sword?"

_"—Why not." _

Not a thought able to form in Hiko's mind to consider otherwise, he leaned down and placed the unsheathed Winter Moon in Kenji's grabby hands. Kenji was awestruck all over again. His eyes went unbelievably wide like saucers, his brows flown up as high as they would go. He was quite ecstatic doing nothing but holding it. His hands were so small he had to use both to support the sword.

"It's heavy."

"True swords are lighter than their training counterparts."

"This is suppose' to be light?" Kenji breathed.

"To me. It is."

Kenji looked to Hiko with a stupid grin. With all the concentration of a one track mind forgetting everything else outside his head, Kenji swayed a sword larger than he was up and down. Up and down like the world's most brittle kata. Hiko touched a hand to his chin, watching. Kenji had definitely held wooden bokkens before. He latched onto it with practiced ease. He actually knew how to hold a sword. He was definitely the son of a dojo instructor.

Hiko's amusement wiped off his face. Did Kenshin teach him how to hold a sword? Or did Kaoru?

…Did it matter to him, who did?

With a gaping smile on his face, Kenji whooshed Winter Moon up and down.

After a while, his movements began to sway from side to side a little concerningly. Moving where he was sure the boy could see, Hiko slowly approached, then placed his hands over Kenji's. He guided him into position. "Hold steady," he said. "One."

Hiko struck the air.

"Two."

He struck again, and Kenji let out the smallest gasp, feeling the new power in the motion. The glide. Slow like a current, but full of strength.

"Three."

Hiko returned them to position, and Kenji made a sound of delight. Hiko smirked.

"This sword," Hiko started, as he held the weight of Winter Moon, but Kenji directed them drawing squiggles in the air, "was supposed to be your father's. But he…he doesn't have use of a thing like this anymore. So instead, it lingers with me."

"Why doesn't Papa want it?" Kenji said immediately.

Hiko regretted saying anything at all. He moved to take Winter Moon off Kenji, sheathing it safely back at his side with a soft _clink._

What kind of lie should he say? Because he was a man who could keep an oath? Because he did not kill?

Hiko scoffed. "That's enough questions."

Kenji blinked. He gave him a betrayed, accusatory look, like Hiko was a man who took candy from children. Behind those wide eyes he seemed to realise Hiko's hesitance. But the moment was gone, easily thrown behind as Kenji got up again and ran to the window. He looked listlessly out, mashing his chin against the low sill in order to see.

_Of course he could._

Hiko Seijuro had been so adamant about that._ Of course_ he could do his duty, _of course _he could kill Kenshin. He could kill Kenshin, like he could, right now, draw this sword and slaughter everyone in his ten metre vicinity for absolutely no other reason than he could. He had the power: that was a fact of life.

But would he?

People lied to themselves all the time. What made Hiko that much different from all the other ants in the farm, in that respect? He'd gotten complacent. Lured into a false sense of security by the era his progeny had created, or lulled by the lack of ugly outward things to the eye. That he by extension had made possible, through the tiniest choice of walking the scenic path up his mountain one night. Because he wanted a sorry breath of fresh air.

He _could _have killed Hitokiri Battousai before he ever took a single breath. He could have saved hundreds — no, doomed the same number of a completely different smattering of people — by wiping out the rot to which flies flocked, by levelling the playing field for history to run its bloody course; and all of this could have been done with the equivalent of him lifting a finger, if only at the right time.

If nothing mattered, then only principles did. Principles, which at its core, were choices.

He chose not to kill Kenshin when he spat in the face of Hiten Mitsurugi ryu. When Kenshin had draped the sword Hiko armed him with in the flag of revolution: a Choshu brand of revolution. When he had disrespected all twelve of their forebears.

He, _Seijuro_, chose to let him go. Not only that, he chose to put a warm haori coat near the door where even an idiot couldn't miss it, because it was a bit chilly outside.

Could he kill Kenshin? Hiko Seijuro's delusions were over.

That was about the one thing he could not ever bring himself to do. It would be easier to kill himself.

He'd considered it before.

In fact, it had won out before.

For some reason, he remembered with startling, vivid sensation the absolute murderous rage he was in when he saw Kenshin hadn't taken the warm haori. Hiko was much angrier then than when Kenshin refused to take this cloak off his back.

The spitting image of Kenshin pulled his red-brown head from the window. He eyed Hiko like he hadn't just been considering killing his father.

"Kenji wants to go out," he said in a small voice. Kenji bounded back to Hiko with a hop and a skip. "…Want dango."

Hiko sighed. "I'm sure the ninja in this place are perfectly willing to serve you food."

"I really want dango."

"I can take you to this inn's restaurant."

"But they don' have dango. I want _dango."_

"If it was on the menu here, I would order it. Alas, it is not."

Then, again, with the kind of conviction someone had only when they have worked out some truth about the universe, helpless against it like a mite on a breeze, a leaf down a stream it had no control over, Kenji said, "Papa said I can't have Kyoto dango."

Completely thrown off by the inanity of that, Hiko frowned. Speechless.

"Wh…what's wrong with Kyoto dango?"

* * *

_A memory._

It got muddled on the old bridge upon Kamo River in Kyoto. The numbers he used to count in his head. It was like a little game.

"Keep moving, baka deshi," his master said, corners of his mouth curling into a condescending smirk, "if you fail to make twenty do not expect to come inside."

Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth was not a man of empty threats.

"Count."

"One." Kenshin slashed his sword. "Two." He struck again, the force of his motion blowing the leaves harshly back in a sudden jolt. "Three."

_"Faster."_

"Four."

The same four strokes. Up, down, left, right, diagonal; shifting footwork, evasion. They were basic moves, the easiest kata there was. Kenshin had made these same motions a thousand times before, and he would perform them a thousand times more. If there was a time he did know this kata, he could scarcely remember it. He was Himura Kenshin, a disciple to a swordsman, and he had always known this kata, had always counted his strokes.

_Three years ago he was the son of farmers. He spoke like the peasants. He had never held a sword before. Three years was a very long time ago._

Then Hiko stepped in to test him. He never let up, not even a little. He expected nothing less than perfection and was not in the least bit concerned about letting Kenshin know it.

"Five." Kenshin struck. Hiko met him back this time, pushing his training sword down and then ruthlessly catching his open shoulder with the flat side of the blade. Kenshin had to learn to move fast, or nurse bruises.

_(He had also gotten very good at nursing bruises.)_

"Six." Kenshin spun, and before Hiko could catch him in the back he defended himself with a parry.

"Not bad," Hiko remarked. He tilted his sword and re-centred Kenshin's for him, "Now again. Faster. Until you stop thinking."

_Until he stopped thinking?_

"…Six…seven—"

Hiko swivelled, sending the tip of his sheath to Kenshin's ankle: a hard, unforgiving crack. "Don't miscount."

_How could he be counting and not think at the same time?_

Hiko Seijuro was not patient enough to explain. Instead, he showed him. That was how he learned. Hiko performed the set once, maybe twice, and then landed in front of Kenshin with a soft tap on his cheek with his sword. It radiated cold. He didn't flinch, because that only made things worse.

"Did you manage to see every attack?"

"Of course."

"How many?"

"…Twenty strikes."

"Wrong."

And then Hiko hooked Kenshin's feet and sent him crashing into the dirt. But Kenshin was well versed in being tossed into the dirt, he went with the motion, one hand supporting his body, retaliating with a twist and kick. It had worked the first time — he'd hit Hiko in the jaw and it was the most satisfying thing in the world. It did not work this second time. Hiko just hooked Kenshin's wrist with his shoe instead, and he tumbled into the dust twice as hard.

Kenshin grimaced. He bit down his yelp. Because that only made things worse, too.

Hiko huffed, amused. Kenshin went for his sword. Hiko kicked it out of the way. He put a well-placed boot to his back, pinning him. Another cold tap of sword in his face.

_Slap. _

"You're not even paying attention. If you cannot see your opponent's attacks, how do you expect to defend against them? If you cannot count correctly, how will you learn the next set?"

Kenshin scoffed. "I am paying attention."

"Then you have managed the impossible." Hiko removed his sword. "You have fooled me."

So Kenshin watched and practiced and counted, day in, day out, until one day he was no longer Himura Kenshin, a disciple of a swordsman. He was Hitokiri Battousai, shadow assassin to the Ishin Shishi. He was the son of revolution. He did not remember what it was like to not have killed before. He was trained for this.

Near the centre of Kyoto was Sanjo Bridge, wide enough to shepherd over three carriages at once and strong enough to hold two cannons and a quarter-battalion of Bakufu soldiers and Shinsengumi all crowded around. On the opposite side, Hitokiri Battousai stood with the Ishin Shishi. It was the first time he'd ever seen a cannon, let alone two.

The game, as Hiko put it, had gotten harder and harder. Kenshin was made to count his strokes, count them until he could continuously strike without being finished off by Hiko in two blows. It had forced him to strike with such amazing speed that the only indication an attack had being launched was the soft, sure click of a sword sliding back into its sheath. It had honed him into the kind of swordsman that moved and reacted rather than thinking out a step by step procedure; he did not think of his sword, he did not think of footwork; he just was. The strikes came to him naturally, like a perfected song. Like breathing.

_(Alone, far away from that rundown little hut in an isolated clearing, away from the sting of cold waterfall that supposedly soothed his cramped muscles, it finally dawned on a boy apprentice what the counting meant. Their style was designed for one to fight many. Hiko had told him. Without hedging words, with not a hint of regret, Hiko had said: Hiten Mitsurugi ryu will make you a mass killer. The counting was not just a game. Each strike was one body down, one opponent dealt with. Precisely one kill. This truth came to Kenshin before he'd ever killed anyone. Kenshin was, and always had been, completely informed of what his skills were.)_

He never blamed Hiko for this. For — any of this. Kenshin knew, from the very moment Hiko put a sword in his hands — not a wooden stick, not a bokken; a real, noble samurai sword in a roadside slave boy's hands — that he absolutely was going to carry out his words.

That Kenshin was being offered a chance at something he'd so greedily wanted before he was even old enough to voice what that was. To be something more. To do something more.

And he'd lapped it up like dirty water in his village.

He was grateful.

On the bridge there was gunfire and embers and shots of cannon, broken only by sounds of the ragged shouting and screaming of three dozen or so men. The orders: kill as many as you can before retreat. It was time to count. Battousai jumped over the line and started from where he'd left off.

_"Eighty four." _

He spun, swiping his blade cleanly beneath a man's chin, sidestepping and leaving before the body had even fallen. "Eighty five."

He evaded a spearman to the side, jerking left and then thrusting from underneath an arm. "Eighty six."

_(The slight shock of a cannon hurtling past his head. Something loud crashing and heat furling alive behind him, grazing his back. The threadbare parts of his gi blackening, on fire. Kenshin had been jerked away, his teeth clattering violently in his head as he was thrown forward. It wasn't the heat or the skinned palms or splinter on his collarbone that startled him. It was the awful, aching ringing. The ringing that threw him off his composure, thrusting him into a loud yet deaf world, where everything was still much the same. One of the cannons fired off wrong — it bit into the wood, crashed through the foundations — and the bridge collapsed in the middle, throwing half of the fight into the river.)_

He'd gotten lucky, caught a handhold on the half of the bridge that didn't collapse. Kenshin heaved himself up, knelt to gasp in lungfuls of air. Someone used the moment to nick his ankle with a blunted sword, and Kenshin — _Battousai _— swivelled furiously, resurfacing from the confusion. Battousai parried the next strike, ending it on the second. His body leapt back into action, going through unthinking motions as he plowed down enemies. In a way, the moment had made him immune to the cannon fire, instinct pulsing through him like blood. Gunfire clattered to the ground, but he couldn't hear it anymore. There was no time to even count. Kenshin's mind went near blank. He killed.

At the end of it all, his ears were left ringing in the moment where the cannons had gone off, someone else's blood dripping down his neck.

"How many….how many," he murmured.

The dead were circled around him. He couldn't see faces or wounds, he couldn't match it all to the numbers. The realisation came to him. All of a sudden he was overcome with a primal, absolute need to follow the discipline drilled into him all those years ago. He was lost, crazed, even, by the thought of the numbers, the numbers.

He _had _to count, like a secret kata, like a spinning top wavering, another one of a dozen little rituals he indulged in to keep sane…

Sanjo Bridge collapsed, sending a tumble of wheels and metal and bodies into the Kamo River.

That was the day he stopped counting how many he'd slain.

At the end of the game, when Hiko got bored of watching Kenshin's kata, he sat him down on the log. His hands were utterly shredded. Red and stinging and oozing blisters.

"It's getting everywhere," Hiko chided. "Brace yourself."

Hiko held Kenshin's hands in his and poured his nightly sake over them. Kenshin winced and yelled in pain.

"That's what you get when you fail to learn the techniques correctly. Why do you still need to think about the intricacies of the same strike after a hundred, two hundred strokes?" Hiko huffed loudly, released Kenshin's hands, and calmed down before he finished bandaging him. "Ridiculous."

"Three hundred and twenty five."

"What?"

Kenshin lifted his head. "Three hundred and twenty five strokes. I'm trying," he muttered. "I'm trying."

"Well try harder," Hiko said.

He took off, back to the hut. Kenshin counted the steps Hiko took until he could no longer see him.

That night after Sanjo Bridge had collapsed, after he'd killed more in one night than he ever had at once, he'd retreated back to headquarters. Over a rowdy dinner with war tested Ishin Shishi lined up and down the largest room, a cheerful, sake-tipsy comrade slapped him on the back and slurred aloud, "What's the number now, Battousai?"

But Battousai could no longer recall.

A Shishi laughed, slamming a palm to the ground. "Hah! Higher than you could ever dream of yours being!"

"Hey, hey, let the man live! What's the number, Himura?!"

"I've fergotten too! What's it now— the count—"

He had no gag reflex. Kenshin put down his chopsticks, curled over, and threw up right in his lap in one single, smooth heave.

_"Hahaha!"_

_"Lightweight, huh?" _

_"Hahah_ — it looks like Battousai can't hold his _drink!" _the Shishi laughed.

_He didn't drink, because it all tasted like…like—_

* * *

"Blood," Megumi said quietly, and Kenshin startled out his reverie.

Where was he? Mount Atago. The hut in the clearing.

Megumi lifted the old potter's rag she found on a shelf and wrung water into a bucket. "—So hard to get out of things." Bent in a ball on the floor, she began scrubbing the wooden planks with the wet rag. "Hard to get it out of the wood, hard to get it out of tatami mats, harder yet to get it off your hands,_ hahah," _she said with a lilt to her voice.

Kenshin stirred, sitting up from the bundles of blankets piled over him.

"Oh," Megumi started, and sat up. "Did you hear…I mean…that was careless of me."

"No," Kenshin said. "It's nothing."

It was the late hours of the afternoon. He had taken everyone to show them where the well was to get water. Then they all came back to the hut, lying in wait. Hiko still hadn't returned, and the five of them had gotten antsy waiting in the small hut. Kenshin had picked a square corner of wall without pots and sat against it to think. To his horror, he'd actually drifted into some restless half-sleep. Someone had draped way too many blankets over him — he folded them away in a hot sweat he wished was only because of the blankets.

Outside, he could hear Sano, Kaoru and Yahiko talking faintly. _"I don't want to eat turnip soup anymore. Can't we just eat Aoiya food?" "Unless you're going to cover the expenses, Sano, no." "I don't want turnips either. Can't you just cook something else Kaoru?" "Pretty big request to make to your shishou, Yahiko." "Whatever. It's not like you were going to cook it anyway. Kenshin would've." _

Megumi, for whatever reason, had occupied herself with scrubbing the leakage from the burlap bag. She looked at Kenshin as if he'd caught her doing house chores, and she was embarrassed it was not immaculate before a guest walked in. The funny thing was, this was Kenshin's childhood home (that he'd broken into without a shred of remorse) and Megumi was supposed to be the guest.

"How long was this one asleep?" Kenshin asked sheepishly.

"Just an hour or two." Megumi smiled. "How are you feeling? Maybe you need to take more time to rest."

Kenshin huffed, shook his head. "That I most certainly do not." He gestured to the rag. "Please, Megumi-dono. Let this lowly one relieve you."

Megumi ignored him, scrubbing on merrily. Kenshin quickly took another rag, joined her, and after more than a decade, began scrubbing these floors again. They worked like that for a long, silent time.

"Can I…ask you a question, Ken-san?"

Kenshin turned to her with a bewildered look. Megumi was never…tentative towards Kenshin, she never _asked_ him anything — she talked at him and Kenshin was glad to be a receptacle. It hurt a little she had to say that.

"Of course," Kenshin said with some force. _"Of course, _Megumi-dono. Please."

She regarded him a moment. But then her brows creased against herself. As though she were faintly scandalised at whatever thoughts she was narrowly about to set loose out in the open. Instead, she said in a careful, level tone, "What are we doing here, Ken-san?"

Kenshin blinked. An awful feeling settled in his stomach. Megumi, kind but forward Megumi, had been so careful to be nothing but forbearing this entire trip; even though Kenshin had been chokingly aware of how angry her ki was — tiny and flickering like a candle flame refusing to die — when he'd broken the news she was uninvited to Kenji's birthday celebration due to unforeseen circumstances.

_"Murders?_

_"What murders? Let _me _speak to the officers—"_

_"Megumi-dono, no…"_

Megumi tapped two fingers on her crossed arms, waiting for his answer.

"This one is here to speak to his shishou, that he is."

"Yes, I know, but," Megumi pursed her lips, brushing her fringe out of the way. "You're going to have to fight him. Aren't you?"

"If it comes to that."

This was about his body, wasn't it? Kenshin knew she knew exactly what condition he was in — Hiten Mitsurugi ryu was still available to him and would be for some years yet. He didn't feel _that _incapacitated…did he look particularly pathetic against Saito? Did he mess up in front of her? Kenshin sat up straighter, wondering if he'd stopped slouching he'd look a little less like he had one foot in the grave.

"Megumi-dono," Kenshin started, "If you're worried about Hiten Mitsurugi ryu—"

"I'm asking you if there's any point in you being here," Megumi said shortly. "Can you really fight this man?"

Kenshin pulled back. Fight Hiko Seijuro? It was not a smart idea. But of course he could. He used to fight Hiko every day. Physically. Verbally. Hell — that used to be his specialty.

"There may be no one else who can stand a chance. I have to do something." Kenshin swallowed. "I am a practitioner of Hiten Mitsurugi ryu. Even if this one refused the title…he is beholden to its teachings."

"…I see."

Kenshin licked his lips anxiously.

Changing the subject, Megumi stood. She vaulted to the table where a letter sat. As she held it out to Kenshin, he realised the letter's seal was already broken.

"So I might have been digging," Megumi started. "_Don't give me that look._ Who's here to get offended? _But_ — look what I found."

Kenshin took the letter limply. Even if he was here to confront Hiko about murders, it didn't exactly feel great to be going through his letters and things…

A letter.

Suddenly Kenshin snapped awake. Who on earth would send _Hiko_ letters? Hiko didn't even have an _address. _He tore open the seal a second time, unfolded the paper with ravenous abandon—

_12 January 1880_

_Honoured Shishou, _

_Your unfilial deshi writes to you hoping this letter finds you well. He writes to inform you of a jubilant occasion. He would like to invite—_

Oh. Right. Kenshin wrote this.

Kenshin tore his eyes away from the letter, cringing hard before stuffing it back into the envelope as if prolonged exposure might flay his fingers. A great deal of embarrassment rushed over him, turning him a bright shade of red. Ripe for Megumi's judgement.

But Megumi mercifully pretended not to notice, busying herself with skimming the letter again. "I didn't know you'd invited your swordsmanship master."

"Yes. Well," Kenshin huffed. "That was a long time ago."

_"Honoured Shishou,"_ Megumi began to read, and Kenshin felt something inside of him die, _"Your unfilial deshi writes to you…_bla, bla, bla…something something _Kaoru-dono_…something something _marriage…We want very much for you to attend. Enclosed is a train ticket to Tokyo City from Kyoto Central presence is wished at our ceremony," _Megumi looked up. _"—In the place of this one's father."_

Kenshin, beet-red now, gave Megumi a deep, defeated look. "Must you read it out loud, Megumi-dono? This one wrote that when he was mad, that I did."

Kenshin slapped a hand over his face, and feeling like a traitor, laughed artificially. Play it off as a bad joke. Make a fool of himself. That had always gotten him out of sticky situations. He thought Megumi might join in, laugh at his expense like she might do on a good day. But she did not.

"Oro," Kenshin said, forced. "It was a mistake."

Megumi folded the letter neatly, tucking it carefully back into the envelope with none of the poise Kenshin had. She couldn't hide her ki, but the best coverup by far was how she consistently acted casual, yet not quite, normal.

"Let's turn the clock back. Five years ago," Megumi started in a honeyed, indulgent voice. "You and Kaoru were getting married. A big — huge! — milestone for the both of you. You wanted to have a traditional wedding. I remember you lovebirds running around to the clinic, mouthing off at me to get advice."

Then she switched gears. She said, in the confidential tone of a doctor describing particularly awful symptoms without making it sound too depressing, "You wanted a ceremony, and you two wanted to do it right. Weddings required parents. No bride or groom_ invites_ people to their _own_ wedding. Their fathers do. But Kaoru didn't have a father. So she managed to find her old caretaker, Oguni Gensai-san. Her old family doctor, good friends with her father. He watched her grow up. And you? You wrote this letter."

Kenshin didn't move. Feeling distinctly like an interrogation subject strapped to a seat, he nodded lethargically, betraying his secrets. "Yes. Yes, fine. I invited Hiko Seijuro. It was important to Kaoru-dono. We—she wanted to do it right."

Carefully, Megumi opened the first drawer on the dresser, placing the letter back where she found it.

"He never wrote back," Kenshin said noncommittally. He leaned forward, sighing in more embarrassment. "Honoured Shishou? Unfilial deshi? Bold words from this one, indeed. My shishou…" Kenshin said, staring at Megumi's feet, "…is a hard, vindictive man. He would no sooner drink from a cup I offer than he would leave this mountain to stop his 'deshi' from killing legions."

Kenshin stopped. Slowly, he put a hand to his mouth. What was he doing? Voicing these _ugly _thoughts. Things _nobody_ needed to hear. And putting them on _Megumi,_ as if she hadn't enough Kenshin-related problems to muse about. Had he no shame?

But Megumi shook her head. There was too much understanding in her eyes as she bobbed down, patting Kenshin's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to — to put you on the spot or anything. I just…Gosh._ Nnm_. I wish I hadn't said this. I wish I hadn't said any of this."

Megumi bunched her sleeves up, crossing her ams and getting up.

She was a civilian, she couldn't help how her ki jumped and flickered, amplified a million times by Kenshin's own elevated vigilance and the emptiness for miles around on this remote mountain. Kenshin thought himself lucky on this count — if she could sense _his_ ki she would be getting out her medical kit for how unbalanced it was right now. But it also meant he didn't have to try hide it.

"…There's something else you're not telling me," Kenshin said softly. Megumi stiffened. "What's wrong, Megumi-dono?" He lowered his eyes. Then he fought past himself, looking imploringly up at her. "Please, tell this lowly one."

Megumi paced the room. Finally, she stopped at the shelf with the san-san-kudo wedding cups. Megumi lifted the first in the set. The_ past_, an offering of gratitude to ancestors and parents, blessing the couple's meeting. The cup Kaoru offered to Ogumi Gensai-san to also drink from, who gave his blessing to the union — the cup Kenshin offered to no one in their unconventional wedding.

"Read the date."

Kenshin did. "Made in 1880." He looked up. "Megumi-dono?"

Megumi just stared at him. Slowly, Kenshin connected the dots.

1880\. The year he and Kaoru were married.

Hiko didn't make these cups to sell. Hiko didn't make these cups for show. Hiko made these san-san-kudo ceremonial cups for Kaoru and Kenshin's wedding.

He had…actually planned on coming.

Kenshin's stomach plummeted. _Why? _

"I thought he was just some man who taught you the sword. Now I know what he is to you, this is — the _stupidest_ thing ever." Megumi folded her arms. "We didn't need to come here. You shouldn't have come. This is none of your fault — I'm sick of the government sticking their hands in your life."

"Not the government," Kenshin mumbled. "…This was a personal request."

_"Why are we listening to Saito then?!" _Megumi said shrilly.

She plodded herself down next to Kenshin, sighing in annoyance. "…I hate it when you use Hiten Mitsurugi ryu."

Kenshin swivelled to face her, his eyes wide.

"Ugh," Megumi grunted, "Look at me. Pestering. —What am I, Sano?" She laughed, high-pitched and humourless. "I don't want to be the nagging woman who tells you over and over you shouldn't fight. _You shouldn't fight anymore, your body can't take it…_ I know Ken-san is fully aware. You love fighting," she said, and Kenshin frowned, unsure if she was right or not; but there was no time to ponder, "You love swordsmanship. You use your sword for protection. You even used it to save _me." _

Megumi huffed, her brows flying up as if that was a bad joke. "—But I can't let you fight Hiko Seijuro, Ken-san." She turned to him dejectedly. "…I'm saying this as your friend. Not your doctor. You can't fight Hiko Seijuro, because you won't be able to put your heart into it."

Couldn't put his _heart_ into it?

This was too much. Did Megumi not know what Hiko Seijuro was? Did she not see the reach of his killing sword? Did she not know how Kenshin had been trained? How he was beaten to a pulp every other week by this man? How he made him count sword strokes until he threw up?

Did she not know how Kenshin had gained the succession technique?

Of course not. No one knew Hiko Seijuro. Nobody on this earth knew him other than perhaps Kenshin.

Nobody knew — not even Kenshin himself until this moment — how much hurt and anger Kenshin harboured for the man, deep down in his soul, balled into each fist at his side, swallowed like pride. How many bitter memories there were fighting to jump back to the surface, tear at his head like crows to shine.

"This one hears you, Megumi-dono," Kenshin said. He got up. "You must forgive me. But this lowly one is perfectly able to go against Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth."

Megumi got up too, watching him cross the room. But Kenshin did not flee. He did not leave. He simply placed the smallest san-san-kudo cup back snugly upon its place, completing the tower.

_Honoured Shishou. _

_Unfilial deshi. _

Kenshin shouldn't have written that letter. That was stupid. Humiliating.

At least that was the easiest lesson he'd learned yet from Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth. Hiko Seijuro had not wanted a son. He had trained a soldier. A vassal for Hiten Mitsurugi ryu. And when Kenshin didn't become the kind of soldier he wanted, he dropped him.

_When you said you wouldn't carry on the Hiten Mitsurugi line, I was no longer your master, and you were no longer my disciple. _

_Forget I was ever your shishou. _

And Kenshin did. For five years.

It had taken a long, long time to get here, but he finally knew who he was. He was Himura Kenshin, husband to a dojo instructor. He was a father now — a father to a wonderful,_ happy_ son. A son Kaoru named after Kenshin, and her own father, whom she loved and missed more than anything else. He knew what peace looked like. He knew what a family looked like. So he would fight for those things.

Kenshin would clear his name, and he'd do it for himself, too.

Kenshin went back and sat down. Megumi did too. She sat close, then leaned her head on his shoulder. Basking in dissatisfaction.

Could he put his heart into fighting Hiko Seijuro?

Kenshin could do better than that. He could put his back into it.

* * *

**Notes:**

The first bit presents a 'warabe uta,' a Japanese children's nursery rhyme. I must point out that I mix and matched the eng translation here to show a complete story in one verse.

:)


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